Behind this fence I stand Waiting for an invite, in. So late did I understand This white picket fence is not that thin I stare through these wooden boards, The keyhole on a broken glass door To catch a glimpse of that which is; in. Hour hands broke the clock And away, did it ran While i pick this paper lock With a stolen compass needle. Little did I know This lock I can't break And this hope I must forsake. Thus here I stand, outside this fence, Looking at my would have been friends. Earning for the other side Cursing at this damned divide. Forever must I stay outside With my aching heart still denied A chance to see the world outside my head?
I write for a multitude of reasons. sometimes to escape, sometimes to create and play god. But if the question is why do I write, then I am sorry to say that I have no reason. Or to be exact, I don't know any reason. Sometimes I get pleasure out of it, sometimes it numbs my pain, sometimes the opposite. sometimes nothing at all. I guess this is how I process life. please read through my heart and mind, and leave a comment to let me know how you felt these words.