I find i write in drips and draps. I remember when I wrote like thunder and my words would lash and simmer and bring the world to its knees.
Now i am left with bricks and mortar and empty pictures hearing only the echos if a storm.
I feel as if i am a reflection of a reflection, that i am a copy of somebody before me and unexciting as a blank page.
And I kissed him for all I was worth,
which wasn't much,
but I kissed him all the same
Tyger Tyger. burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye.
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat.
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears:
Did he smile His work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
she was the sun shine
through my clouds. If i was
the rain, she would find
She said to me with eyes like
"why save me?"
And I said to her like
the quiet before the storm,
"Because I will not
let you become another
thing that the rain cry's
love, love, love,
we can all identify it, but
Do any of us know what it actually feels like?
some people are