(no subject)
I've always wanted to be a poet.
Consistant and morose.
A living, breathing painting composed of nothing but scribbled notes and white-out.
A notebook yellowed at the edges.
A love letter tucked away underneath a mattress, in the hollow of the old oak tree that still stands by the pond that's tucked away behind a mile of wildwood.
Words.
Words.
Nothing but adjectives and consonants.
Breathless sighs captured in between fine blue lines.
The beauty of the mooonlight and the sound of the surf resounding on the shore.
A lonely house, nothing but spirits floating between the pauses in the tick-tocking of the clock.
Dead & immortal.
I've always wanted to be a poet.
Consistant and morose.
A living, breathing painting composed of nothing but scribbled notes and white-out.
A notebook yellowed at the edges.
A love letter tucked away underneath a mattress, in the hollow of the old oak tree that still stands by the pond that's tucked away behind a mile of wildwood.
Words.
Words.
Nothing but adjectives and consonants.
Breathless sighs captured in between fine blue lines.
The beauty of the mooonlight and the sound of the surf resounding on the shore.
A lonely house, nothing but spirits floating between the pauses in the tick-tocking of the clock.
Dead & immortal.
I've always wanted to be a poet.