Writing to me is harsh and senseless
Whenever in light of day
I pick up the words
And scorch the paper
Forcefully
Writing to me is painful
It wanders within me
As an idealistic thought
Something I wish
To master
Writing is sweet and chilly
As a crisp december evening
By the trees
A hot drink melting snow where it sits
Beside me
Writing is in my mind
At all times
I believe
Even if it does not make itself known
in actual lettering
I don’t like what I write at the moment. But they say you have to write the bad stuff to get to the good; so here we are...