I met the lady sitting in the dark.
She scribbled away in notebook after notebook.
Creating art.
Creating beauty out of lead.
I asked her what she was doing all cooped up by herself.
In a dark corner of the world.
And why she didn't share her ideas and words with the world.
She answered simply that she couldn't.
That she couldn't leave the place where she now sat.
That she had to keep writing.
I told her that the world needed her art.
So she asked me to share it.
She explained that every once in a while she would drop an idea down
to my head
from this world she lived in.
And I would share it for her.
And so I do.
And I can't write without her.
Even when the words are mine and not hers.
It's always her idea.
And when the ideas are mine and not hers.
The words are hers.
And so we live.
And sometimes she leaves me.
And those are the darkest times of all.
When all my words dry up
And I search for them in an empty well.
And then she returns.
And we write together once more.
YOU ARE READING
A Dash of Lemon
PoezjaThis is a bunch of random poetry I wrote. Key word being random. Some of it kind of has a story continuing from my other poetry book, (Backwards Lemons) but it's not super important. Some of it's insane, some of it's random, some of it's crazy, and...
