Aug 3, 2008


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.

1 comment:

  1. Very well put! :]
    It'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