you carry yourself with certain uncertainty and I wonder why that is. Continue reading
January 10th, 2016.
Wings painted black flap effortlessly,
striving for the infliction of pain,
as eyes blink away tears of relief
after catching a breath from their struggle to obtain
Writing makes me very excited.
This, I’m assuming, is at least slightly implied, considering the fact that I am writing right now. On this blog I created myself. On my own time. Generally indication that writing is enjoyed, right?
Either way, being able to craft a story of my own makes me feel powerful in a way, like I can actually do something and put something out into the world. It makes me happy to know that I can do whatever I want with these stories, no matter how ridiculous, because they’re my stories. Of course, showing them to others and wanting to appeal to them is a whole ‘nother story; but when I write for myself, I know I have the freedom to express myself in any way.
It’s not just writing these crazy, slightly insensible stories that gets me excited. There are tons of different styles of writing I enjoy, like drafting essays for school or experimenting with poetry.
And that brings me to the topic of poems.
And poetry slams.
I wish I could run away
Into a forest rid of weeks and days
Where time is gone
And I’m in a safe space
Fly on the wings
Of a paper plane
And find myself in a place
Where the end is the start and the start is the end
Yet there is not a trace
Of regret or remorse
Sadness and suffering
No stress or anger or chase
I wish and I want
But I’m here to stay
There truly is no escape