Lovely Literature
This, I don’t want to write.
I will lie my pen to rest tonight,
And tear myself away from my paper,
Because all of my ideas are now distant blurs.
It’s seven in the morning and my bed is cold,
For I am reading my past writings, wrinkled and old.
Wondering what my thoughts were while writing those,
But I digress, for in my youth, my imagination was simple as the wind blows.
Now I am guilty of being a poet making no sense.
For my words are orphans of silence
Never describing my experiences completely.
But by these words, I am lead away from my fears, away from reality.
They are the bridge across the chasm of broken bliss.
And each line is a step closer to escape the dark abyss
It's now ten a.m. and my spirit is strangely nourished from finishing this piece.
So finally I feel the lightness of my soul.
Finally this poetry sets me free.
This lovely literature has given me liberty.
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