I wish these pale white fingers
Could find the right combination
Of letters on the keyboard
To express the fear I now have
The outer layer of perfection
Was shed today like a snakeskin
At exactly eighteen hundred hours
Yes, it could have been worse
But that does not make it better
And it does not make it go away
I'm lost in an endless sea of drama
Trying to find the magical words
Looking for a cure for what ails her
To yet again fix something
That can't be undone
Can't be fixed
Can't be
Without being specific this is about how it feels right now. I don't know if I will quit writing for now, or just start writing insane amounts of everything. A dream hangs in the balance and there are no answers, just questions. Why?
No comments:
Post a Comment