Writings in the pages, scribbles and scratch out words replaced with metaphors.
It wants to send a message not straight forward- but subtle,
Like how the wind flows around us,
It doesn't show itself but you feel it.
It can be the cold wind that mixes with the warm, soft sunlight that embraces you in the morning when you open your window,
It can be the the cold breeze in the night when you walk home from where you came from.
It can be comforting, assuring.
Writings on the pages, even more scribbly, messy and... faded.
It wants to send a message,
It's a mix of metaphors and straight forward words.
It can be subtle,
But you'll feel overwhelmed,
Like how sudden melancholy hits you from a cold night's breeze when you walk home.
It can be comforting, comforting melancholy.
Writings on the pages, less scribbly.
Pressure from the written words can be seen from the next page.
It's a mix of metaphors and despair.
It's not subtle, it screams into the clear.
Like how the winds of the storm are.
Destructive, strong, it leaves marks and tears.
Like how the pressure of the written works leave marks.
Like how a written work asks to be a song- to be sang.
It wants to send a message but not straight forward,
It wants to hide in a melody with the subtle hint of the metaphors.
YOU ARE READING
Scribbles
Sonstigeshi, if you ever came across Scribble, this book contains my feelings, my thoughts- basically my confession that I chose to be kept with me and be written. But as I want to share what I have, my unvoiced voices. Maybe I can have people relate if not...
