Sitting and staring into a page of white, my mind rolls around all the things I could write. For it to be beauty or love, I try not to rhyme for these two words harmonize well with anything one could think.
Yet also is a time in remembrance of a confrontation when love was not the issue and there was no beauty in the words coming to me. An offer so boldly stated that I refused, then told very few.
At times my mind goes into a deep thought about why I chose to stay clean from the chaos of a writing hell? Now with time so short I write very little and most of which makes no sense, but still I try.
Thinking of my best attribute and how can this be promoted? I end up with no answers as I have tried all three avenues; all of which have wound up as a dead end street across the field of the motorway in my sight.
There have been many dreams and few realities as I am still not sure of who I am. Scars and tattoos mark up my body showing where I have been as the lines on my face represent the knowledge I have gained; if any.
A look in my eyes sometimes that should tell the world I have something to say and I think you should listen. Though wrapped up in their own business no one has the time to hear the gibberish I wish to speak.
So I concentrate my thoughts onto little pieces of paper and spread them throughout the places of which they choose to be. For who am I to bind words up in text, choosing their destination of fate?
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