I've been writing a lot of poetry lately. I guess I find December to be a poetic month. Not in the way that you would think of spring or fall being poetic - more in it's own, unique sort of anticipation.
Here's one poem, which I'm sure many authors could identify with. I will be back with more shortly.
New journeys, new ventures, new things to behold:Stories upon stories that nobody’s told,Hearts are laid barren upon wasted slate.Words, they pour forth, but they all come too late.Too many times, as I wander hereI have felt the cursed claws of fate.
They dig and scratch and hold me back,The passions of ambition crack.Yearning to live, to help create -I am the one who I berate.Life’s far away, once felt so near -Myself that I’ve begun to hate.
What happened, when I used to write?The words that fall like stars tonightAnd burn until I separateFrom the world I infuriate.My breath too shallow now to hear -My paper I incinerate.
This paper I incinerate.