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What would it be like
If my thoughts were spoken,
If my thoughts weren't wrong,
If my words were fluid?
What would it be like,
If I could breathe like I write,
If I could experience happiness frequently,
If I could no longer feel burdened?
Would it be finally waking up without being tired?
Would it be wordless bliss?
Would it be like the feeling of silk on skin?
What would life be like if I lived like Thoreau or Emmerson?
All my problems simplified as I embraced reality.
No worries about life and careers.
No breakdowns every time my thoughts are left to wander.
I, who takes sanctuary in written word, am tired.
I'm a wreck.
Hopeless.
Careless.
Forgotten by all who see my face daily.
I, who takes sanctuary in hidden word, want to feel as if I were wearing silk.
As if that smile were for me.
As if I mattered again.
What would it be like if I could breathe?
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YOU ARE READING
A Writer's Aesthetic || Short Stories
Short StoryTidbits of stories and one-shots from a very tired and whimsical author. Some stories may be sad, some may be happy, and some just might be utterly confusing. But writing is truly an aesthetic I hope to strengthen. So here I am.
