We meet again. My hand on pen, which meets paper. The words form on paper, but do not wish to be revealed by tongue. At a loss for words, when the words are, in fact, there. Yet, no one understands them, as if I'm speaking tongues. An ancient language others can't seem to fathom. My heart and my mind grow weary of trying to explain what doesn't want explaining. Ashes to ashes. I'm afraid I'll never meet the right person to share my burdens with. Yet, I have. This book. The gateway to my sanity. Where will you take me? Nowhere. You are but a book. Pages that are combustible. All evidence is distraught though ink, which bleeds unto this very page. My mind cannot stop... And my hand, which holds the pen --my lifeline-- cannot move fast enough. Until the next time my heart tells a story, adieu!
Posted on dVerse
