Many places, I've come to know, People of different cultures, too; They all have their thing, Something that they can do, But not me, not yet, My talent has yet to show up. I write and write, plots And twists and poems and Even the rare favorite of The readers I've lured And ensnared in my blog. Yet deep inside, I force myself To write the words that meet The lines of text and thoughts. Then I turn to run, and Find the wind upon my face As I escape my life, But it always catches up, And the worries I face Distract me, making the Outside world obsolete. Even in reading, I find Myself buried in stories That show misfortune in the Lives of fictional characters, Directly only to do as they Were told by the writer. And yet, in stories there is a Beauty unmatched by reality, A world that eventually Results in kindness and Peace and excitement. And being in those worlds, If only for a mere moment, Is my hobby. If only I could Be the character in the ...
That's an amazing poem THERIDDLEMASTER! I love how it refers to ancient mythos and reveals a more everyday interpretation. Keep up the writing!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Kyra. I should really thank my anger.
DeleteOkay; thank you Theriddlemaster's anger. XD
DeleteThis is awesome Riddle! I didn't know what to expect from your poetry tbh, this is really amazing. I like how it becomes positive at the end! Great job! :)
ReplyDeleteSo I just realized, that up until this point, I forgot to click notify me on the comments, so I'll have to go back and search to see if you respond, ugh.
ReplyDelete