i've always struggled with this artistic curse; the whirl of chaos and love all in words that bleed me when i try to write. most often, writers leave trails of dreamy words, tsunamis, wonder, and ocean winds on paper.
i guess what i do is far below them.
i don't leave love and freedom at my wake, i definitely don't. but i do leave bits and pieces of ache within my fingertips and i bleed chaos and leave stains on paper.
i consider this a curse for all i could see is nothing but your beauty—more than what your scars could tell and what your mind could fathom;
a curse for i see all the wonders no one ever tried to see in you and i express it through words my lips couldn't utter. i keep writing all the love i want to give you because i don't know any way other than this [of course i know other ways, i just can't express it to you]. i just keep writing all the happiness, all the ache, all the longing, and all the things i love about you.
i write whenever i feel the butterflies, i write whenever the needles in my chest double its pain, i write when the world is asleep, and i write about you
when no one else did.
YOU ARE READING
confessions i will never say and other proses | poetry book 1 ✔
Poetry[ poetry and prose book 1 ] ❛❛and i admit to cheating by still hiding my feelings and getting away with it.❞ a small shelf of thoughts and proses for someone who isn't hers. (sidenote: come check out my other, most recent poetry and prose book: "a h...
