The world is big and I am small
I don’t know who I am at all
Everyone seems to know their way
I get more and more lost each passing day.
My words have come alive, flowing back onto the page like a flood after a desert storm.
Life is truly a strange and beauteous thing. A friend, once walking, laughing with you on the way to school could be dead tomorrow. An enemy you thought was soulless turns out to be more three-dimensional than you ever expected. A new love, comes into your life on a stray summer breeze, and blows out again with a devastating cyclone of wild wind and rain.
You’re left alone, in the mess and greyness behind, but even in destruction there is new life and you begin again.
Writing is the documentation that keeps your soul alive, for without creativity, you might as well be dead.
Falling dust,
In my hair,
Words on a page mean little now.
Sometimes I think,
It’s others that stare,
But I know it’s my face,
Pressed to my deceptive reflection.
My persona, it embodied me,
Snatched my breath away,
Now I am living breathing dying hollow,
For all to see.
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