Sometimes I want to write,
And I cant find the words.
Thousands of options, all from a combination.
Of only 26,
And I cant find the ones I want.
The few I need.
To convey the moments' feelings, the passing thoughts,
The jumbled mess.
The cure. My cure.
To write. Poetically or otherwise.
Escapes me some.
They're in, are the moments where thinking are dangerous,
Because the normal purpose my thoughts serve, avail me.
And without a purpose, they are just an enemy.
An enemy of my existence.
And believe me when I say.
I have enough of them.
About the Creator
D D.
Disabled(fact), 21(age), Writer(ish), Female(definite), Poet(possible), Purple(favourite), Potatoes(chips), Dog(pet), Cats(pets), Fish(weird), Dr Who(fan), Squandlemorf(random), Read(appreciated), Questions(ask), Love(all), Hugs(free).
In The Blink of Her Eye
Time itself bent and morphed, allowing Shannon the precious seconds needed to see and adjust to the disaster unfolding in front of her. Each frame showed minute details she would have missed had the clock not slowed down until she heard every click of the hands as they swept toward the end of everything. If only she was being melodramatic...
By Lisa VanGalen3 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.