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 so sad, but I don't know why! XD :P
ReplyDeleteIt's sad and I know exactly why :P
DeleteWell, it's good that you do. XD
DeleteJeez dude your newer poems are so sad aww, this is so pretty, I love how you don't have a direct message, but you painted this picture than pretty much anyone has been in and idk, it just feels somber and I recall moments that relate to this that probs dont relate to what you felt writing it, but its cool theres space for anyone to insert their experience. Awesome poem!
ReplyDeleteThanks :D And if you think this is sad, read "Coward". It takes a more comedic approach than most of my recent stuff lol
DeleteI like writing humor, but the problem with humor is, if it doesn't come naturally, it doesn't work. And oftentimes, most of my humor is NOT poetic :P