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 ...
I love this! I love how short and sweet this is. I also love how mysterious and veiled it is.
ReplyDeleteI was originally gonna post this on Ramblings, and "HOW" would be posted here, but yeah, the shortness and the hopefulness are two factors of my poetry that people don't often see, so I figured I might feature that in a more prominent area. So it's a bit mixed up: this poem, the personal one, is public, whereas the less personal one, the Ramblings one, is a bit harder to find
Delete"Ironic."
DeleteoOOoOoOOh, is this about who I think it is? *silently ships*
ReplyDeleteFantastic poem, as always :D
O.o Ya never know
Delete...okay, fine, no xD
First off, while this poem features love (like most of my poetry), it's a more familial love. Secondly, it's kinda a mirrored image to the song "Geronimo", which is the first song the person this is about actually shared with me