The Cry

May 28, 2012
Everything I write is backwards,
It never makes any sense,
I often wonder why I own,
So many spiral notebooks,
And blue, fluffy capped pens,
If they’re never to be used,
For saying words of mine,
Phrases meant to be expressed,
By doing something I’m good at,
Something that’s becoming so unfamiliar,
I can’t bear to watch anymore,
I won’t turn back until the empty page,
Calls my name again,
A cry so irresistible to my ears,
I have to answer it,
And you would too,
If you hear it like I do,
Wouldn’t you? (February 15, 2012)





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