I pick up my pen and paper to write, but my head is blank, empty of words. Blank like a clean lonely slate that will never know the pleasure of words written on it for company, empty like the hollowness of nothing. I feel like a soul still searching for purpose and meaning and finding none, begins to believe anything that offers even the smallest succour, that offers a way out even if it's the wrong way out. I stare at th...
From the moment he made youto the moment I saw you ruined,I always knew you were weakand that you'd eventually be torn. Your shield so small,you couldn't keep it up front.Your sword so short, it refused to stay put.Your armor so thin,a needle was all it tookbefore you were lying in pieces upon the floor. And yet I loved you for your flaws,and so many there were.But because you were mine,I really couldn't care. We went on...
Whose woods are these? I guess, I’ll never know. His house might be in Portland . . . or Seattle. He wouldn’t care to know That I pedal past his trees And marvel at the way they grow Line after golden line of leaves March toward the paper-mill Over the hill, to become a bill Or a flier that gets thrown away It seems such a disgrace To force chaos from a forest And grow cottonwoods Just for waste.
As I let out my rage on this paper, I close my eyes and dream of peace.I allow thoughts from the past flow out of me.I let go of tension as stress becomes free.As I let out my rage on this paper,I become who I'm meant to be.Many will ask what the paper has caused me,And I will answer nothing but freedom.They will not understand those thingsAnd I will have to explain them.The paper is merely a blank canvas awaiting a muse....
