I bought this painfully overpriced journal a couple of weeks ago.
The intention was to fill it with life, products of my imagination.
Arbitrary ideas that would overflow my mind like sweet and drunken liquor.
But each time I try to open the first page, prepared with a thirsty pen that
accompanies my throbbing mind..the pages stay empty.
The realization hit me hard.
This empty book being the curse of my life.
Overbearing with ideas, thoughts, potential.
But the will to murmur life in to the existing intention remains dead.
I'm trapped.
-g.b.
YOU ARE READING
Poems at Midnight
PoetryMy moods and thoughts take the shape of poems. Whenever I have coffee, walk down the street, listen to the rain or my favorite song , there is this undeniable voice in my head. It aches, it laughs, it cries and it told me to create. This is for the...
