My Writers Block

I will attempt to tell you about him in words. Words, however, can describe him not. What you read will be and under exaggeration because nothing can compare to him. We met, what odd circumstances. His smile caught my eye. His way of not caring, his hakuna matata. My passion, his on the side fun. Little did I know he was to make it, and I was to break it. Day next, he uttered to a friend a comment of my appearance, who uttered it back to me. I had replied with words of the same, not knowing the same was to happen. Without talking, we did. One day a conversation sprung. It was like times slowed, and move they would not. Then he asked in the way only he would. He asked for relationship. Being speechless responded in a way only would I. Now, mine he claims himself to be. Mine I fearfully hope he is. For he is too good for me, convinced I am of his knowledge of it. Speaking to him becomes a difficult task when I get lost in his pale blue eyes. My hearts in his hands, but know he does not. My mind is in his hands, but know he does not. He is my writers block. My in the way of concentration. The thing keeping me from my writing because of the constant occupation in my thoughts. When I write, he is what it’s about. So now I sit here alone thinking about those pale blue eyes, and if he will ever realize his to goodness and leave. I’ll keep my head held high in hopes that happen it won’t. For as long as he calls himself mine, everything will be fine.





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback