What if you realize you are like a candle?
Fragrant and mystic and beautiful.
Shedding your painful past, spilling your secrets,
Across the table, dripping into the carpet.
Pooling into puddles of memories.
Thick, molten experiences which dry,
And hardens into patterns when it's over.
We are tiny black wicks who burn themselves out.
All that really matters is if our
Experiences have bled into others to
Create something far greater or If we're nothing but a puddle of ourselves?
*Author's Notes*
This is my poem that gave me so much headache 'cause I can't give it a title! Anyway, PURPOSE is fine for me....enjoy!
