I'm able to look out my window,
As I'm confined to this house.
With the sound of the wind outside.
Which is as quiet as a mouse.
And that's a cliche rhyme,
Which I know to be true
But the words still filled your spirit,
As all words seem to do.
And so I'm trying to be thoughtful,
And I'm trying to be quaint,
Isn't writing supposed to be perfect?
And it cannot have any complaints?
But you see,
I can sit here, and like,
write like this lol,
And the words could totally like,
Fill your soul.
So maybe it's not always how you write,
But what you write,
That trickles into your reader's mind.
Because words seem to enchant,
They seem to enhance our thinking.
They seem to dance around our feet and call us by our names,
And pull us in,
And give us hallucinations of what we wish could be real.
Or of what is real.
No matter how much I write, and fight and cry for truth,
These words aren't only dancing around me,
But you too.
