The smell of woodchips on a hot day
Sliver ground where these feet used to play
A kind lady with a place in my heart
Tight hugs in the place I loved art
Wildwood was my childhood on a carpet by a chair
Nonfiction made me live in the bookstained air
Fantasy and fiction piled far too high to reach
Thickening a mystery of shelves I cannot breach
This was where I spent my days, the ones I can remember
Shy and quiet every hour, august to december
Maybe I was sad these days, alone in my endeavor
But these melodies are memories, those memories a treasure
YOU ARE READING
Ode to Life
PoetryIt's chaos to figure out how to live. To love yourself, to love others, to create, to destroy. It's just life. But maybe... just life isn't a bad thing? You can't have good without the ugly. This has all my poems combined, this'll be my only poetry...
