Titles itch the aching belch,
screaming at the wrists to abide.
Yet no sentence is written,
only a ponder of the mind.
Etched surfaces breathe sentiment,
and kindness stares on through;
the harsh reality begins to set in
as the words drivel in time.
Hours pass admitting defeat,
Hands plead against the weight,
as the heart begins to ache.
The relaxation settles on,
Realizing no pages have turned,
Maybe the words have no life,
After all, everything is scorned.
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 6:15 PM UTC
Titles itch the aching belch,
screaming at the wrists to abide.
Yet no sentence is written,
only a ponder of the mind.
Etched surfaces breathe sentiment,
and kindness stares on through;
the harsh reality begins to set in
as the words drivel in time.
Hours pass admitting defeat,
Hands plead against the weight,
as the heart begins to ache.
The relaxation settles on,
Realizing no pages have turned,
Maybe the words have no life,
After all, everything is scorned.
