"It's times like these I dread, when there's everything to say, and nothing left to be said..."
So I have this poem I wrote,
Maybe a month ago
And it's just sitting there,
Unshared
Because, strange as it sounds,
It has no beginning.
I find it funny how so many people
Find it hard to write endings...
To their poetry, to their stories.
Me? Endings just pour from my pen...
Farewells flow out of me like a purge,
But hellos are hard to come by.
I think maybe it's the yin and yang
Of art and real life...
Because in reality,
My introductions are like explosions,
Brilliant fireworks against the night skies...
But I've never cared for good-byes.
(In summation: new writings soon, if I can figure out where to begin. It's especially frustrating, because I realllly like this bit of writing.)