A realization hit me as cold as ice (and yet another attempt with poetry)…
The shivers down my spine were bitter with fear
Threatening to fall down are my tears
My vocal cords are constricted
My broken heart is conflicted
Eyes looking forward but seeing none.
That entire stanze took me an hour and a half to write. That’s an enormous amount of time to rack my brains just to take my point across when what I’m really trying to say is that my life sucks because some guy broke my heart again (Well, not just some guy. It’s THE guy so it hurts even more). That only took five seconds flat to think and another five to type in. So I’ll stick to creative writing. Way, way better than poetry.
Here’s a Lord Byron original, an excerpt from SO WE’LL GO NO MORE A ROVING:
For the sword outwears the sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And Love itself have rest.
Mine just pales in comparison so I’m giving poetry a rest. But isn’t men who dig poetry the best?
