Dear Blog,
then I write.
when I write I feel as though words are pouring from the tips of my hands, not even giving my mind a moments breath.
I am not thinking, but my mind is pouring thoughts as though it was a pitcher.
one day I'm scared my thoughts will end and like the emptiness that still controls me, that nothingness will control my pen. and it will swallow up my budding thoughts and devoir them before my own eyes.
and I will no longer be able to hold up my hand. No longer able to let words sing from my fingers, because on that day I will be a slave.
I will be oppressed by, well by nothing - a supreme control of nothing.
waiting for that day, my mind wonders to things far beyond what is already known.
dwindling in greater good, restoring faith in regions of myself I once thought to be hopeless.
even still...
breathing, walking, talking, yes.
but alive, no.
when I write I feel as though words are pouring from the tips of my hands, not even giving my mind a moments breath.
I am not thinking, but my mind is pouring thoughts as though it was a pitcher.
one day I'm scared my thoughts will end and like the emptiness that still controls me, that nothingness will control my pen. and it will swallow up my budding thoughts and devoir them before my own eyes.
and I will no longer be able to hold up my hand. No longer able to let words sing from my fingers, because on that day I will be a slave.
I will be oppressed by, well by nothing - a supreme control of nothing.
waiting for that day, my mind wonders to things far beyond what is already known.
dwindling in greater good, restoring faith in regions of myself I once thought to be hopeless.
even still...
breathing, walking, talking, yes.
but alive, no.
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