Writing 100 poems In a month & feeling accomplished Until looking up From my paper & realizing My pen has written Nothing In the book Called Life That my eyes Read everyday; Am I writing My book, or Just some Fanfiction for An imaginary Life?
Don't really talk much Now that I write words; Why worry if my words sound witty When paper makes them so pretty? Music is the movement, So I don't need my voice Making noise for my silent song; Just need my pen to sing along
Growing up reading words, then Reading words about those words I grew up re-reading & singing & So never actually writing, 'cause By the time I picked up my pen I was already tired of fools So full of fumes & their selfs Miserably misinterpreting Me & though I'd never written a word Already I'd … Continue reading Miserably Misinterpreting Me
§kin to §kin - that's how you win When the quillbots come in & pin Onto you their mark like a pen Placing you in a pig pen of men As the wind looks through windows Hoping for when the windmill spins Sin into the singe fringe & cringe As the friends of fiends who … Continue reading §kin to §kin – §ound§ of Rin
Time will tell its tale Some times in the pen Others on the paper