A boy slumped up against a tree, journal in hand, pen in the other, wishing away his misery. His pen worth a penny, and the journal, worth a wishing well. Black ink connecting beautifully across the pages, the sound of scratching mixing with the wind. Just a normal boy with abnormal tragedies surrounding him. With pages and a pen, nothing can get to him. Nothing, but himself.
A poet now, scripting out an apocalypse. His pen, no longer worth value, his journal, holding no depth. Back to the way it all seems, nothing special or abnormal anymore. Just a poet, wanting another chance to make more mistakes. Just a boy slumped up against a tree, journal in hand, pen in the other. Wishing away his happiness.
4/16/24
YOU ARE READING
trick's livejournal
Poesiebook for my shitty ass poetry cuz i wanna share it!! enjoy:]
