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 ...
This is written beautifully, so sad though :(
ReplyDeleteSad
ReplyDeleteBut relateable
Wow. I really love this poem, albeit sad. I can relate to some of the aspects in this, as well. This is a sad poem, but I love the details and descriptions that contribute to the fast (sort of) pace and overall mood.
ReplyDeleteI love this! I love how it seems to have fear swallowing up the reader. This poem is a combination of kylyn and Mark (for those who don't know who those people are, they're two characters in my book)
ReplyDeleteI love this,Mark. :) Great job.
ReplyDeleteAs someone who has had trouble with anxiety, this is actually a pretty accurate description of what it's like.
ReplyDelete