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
8 comments:
Great expression of a common feeling. I love the voice and could almost hear and accent. A lovely writer you are. Your words are lucky to have you!
keep that pen moving and let your words flow...it is what writer do...write...and they will be understood by the ones that need to understand, you know...
Agree with Brian, writers have to write. It doesn't matter if other people don't understand either that we must write, or what we write.
"You are but a book. Pages that are combustible. All evidence is distraught though ink..." Wow. I have always liked metaphor that uses the imagery of books. This piece, on of my favorites so far this evening! Your words speak of the difficulty of putting something into words, but your writing itself belies this. Excellent capture.
It's such an overwhelming feeling, isn't it? Just keep writing! :)
I suspect many of us who read this will relate to it, as I do. Wonderfully expressed.
"the pen --my lifeline"...I understand this feeling well.
well done... keep writing, it is so healing!
sometimes when i'm full of feeling i can feel it in my fingertips.
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