If fingers weren't typing
you mind was always
jotting down ideas,
always wandering.
Maybe not about the book
you were writing,
but it wandered though
questions and what if's.
Social Anxiety kept you chained
to the desk, to the internet,
though it wasn't like you mind.
Books were your sanctuary,
films brought your
family together and
writing kept
you from falling apart.
This was your home,
when the real one was
being destroyed.
YOU ARE READING
Dear: Hell
PoetryThe elevator broke now death played with you all night. - Hell's Deal ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Sometimes monsters are real, sometimes Hell is fictional, but both have impacted many lives. So, take seat with some coffee and enjoy this poetry collection.
