the voices have a ghastly clamor hidden by pretty faces, bright twinkling eyes with a sharp glare, you are unsatisfactorily glum within these hallways but as soon as that familiar blue hits your retinas you are alive!
alert! awake! you are ready to write, so you write and you write and feel the pull of quicksand rankings dragging you down, you're tanking and falling fast, it's a sheer glimpse into the world of fame, through a silk veil you catch someone's attention and then you are torn away to be thrown into a bottomless pit!
they say always be creating like it's the name of their saviour and perhaps it is, there is no reason for you to feel badly about your stagnant ascension, you are an enigma in this cold and as the frostbite hits all you can do is whisper "no, not my fingers," for some reason you care more about the extremities than your vitals for a heart does not type but fingers do!
fans of your work flood in, a deluge of comments and votes and follows fill your notifications until suddenly you are suffering a drought, the starving artist cliche never felt as real as it just did, you're hungry and tired and trying to climb back up from the bottom of the pit and there's just something, everything that's holding you back and you just
can't!
win!
thank you for getting melted to #27 in poetry.
YOU ARE READING
melted
Poetry❝the present was the present, and we didn't even know it.❞ dedicated to kjh and wb highest ranking: #27 in poetry
