Words are comforting.
Having the ability to pluck the letters from my mind and transfer them unto paper
Is the greatest gift I have ever recieved.
To be articulate is to be God.
Pile words atop words and create a masterpiece.
Maybe that's all that we are,
Perhaps we are all just words made sentient by imagination.
Dancing sentences kept alive by creativity.
Perhaps God was a writer.
His poetry too vivid to stay two dimensional,
Too captivating to be mere words.
A six day writing process that birthed the world,
Each drop of perspiration a desperate attempt at keeping the story alive.
But God is dead and we are rogue,
It is time to write our own stories.
YOU ARE READING
Poems for the Pained
PoesíaA collection of words both happy and sad strewn together to create awful poetry.
