*I wrote a perfect poem once. I scribbled it down on the back of a half used napkin. It wasn't short and is wasn't long. The lipstick laced food marks couldn't taint what was already perfect. There was no love and no sadness in the words. It embodied only emptiness - it's most pure form. Nothing left wanting, no thirst unquenched.
In a moment of clear sight, I knew only the right words were forming. In that moment the half empty bar around me sunk, drowned, imploded and combusted - for all I cared. I had just written a masterpiece.*
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
*I wrote a perfect poem once. I scribbled it down on the back of a half used napkin. It wasn't short and is wasn't long. The lipstick laced food marks couldn't taint what was already perfect. There was no love and no sadness in the words. It embodied only emptiness - it's most pure form. Nothing left wanting, no thirst unquenched.
In a moment of clear sight, I knew only the right words were forming. In that moment the half empty bar around me sunk, drowned, imploded and combusted - for all I cared. I had just written a masterpiece.*
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