Ink no longer splashes across my fingertips,
Like words no longer leave my lipstick covered lips,
The chair no longer creaks when I sit down,
My short hair does not fly when I turn around,
The things I do sound like the ticking of a clock,
But thoughts inside my head still swirl as I talk,
They turn into the thunder storms that I have stopped to dread,
And now remind me simply of the fact I am not dead.
YOU ARE READING
Words Of A Moth Drawn To Flame
PoetryMoths come and go, This one is lost so it stays, It talks to candles but not the moon, Lost in it's own creation's maze.
