They are strewn across this frigid world
I pick them up, word by word
Trying to string these slippery diamonds
Into a coherent string
They are a peep into the future
They are a fleeting look at the past
They look at me sometimes
Sometimes they look at you
They exist in this, that is not now
They exist in this, that is somewhile else
My only consolation, they exist
So I dive into the dark every night
Searching for another slippery diamond
Stained with memories of future
---=======--------
What writing stories is like for me.
Very well put! :]
ReplyDeleteIt's a lot like that for me as well, although sometimes I consider it a more aesthetic form of vomiting. There's stuff in my head which needs to come out. So it does, and then I forget all about it. xP