Spring.
It's here too quick, but I don't mind it. The passing of time is something I only learned to dislike.
My hands and face are covered in dust, fingers a bit ragged from carrying my loads.
Sitting in front of the rubble is strangely pleasant. Normally I'd hate being so real, but now, I can tell I'm here, and it's happier than ever before.
When did I become happy? Or rather, content?
Content, but so eager to explore, to grow, to leave, to fly, to fall, all the rest.
I want to live.
Maybe this is my new era.
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...
