Unhappy with what I write
So I delete every line
And sit down and sigh
My mind is restless and tortures me
It's always been this way
Since I was a girl with too much imagination and odd things on my mind.
Writing is my release
It's the cure for my disease
But with every word I feed this thing
It consumes me with every heart beat.
My mind disturbs me at night
As I wander down this lonely path
Astray in a dark wood,
Seeing Dante's steps to my left.
I write,
For myself but I hope one day
These words will find you,
You seekers, dreamers and travelers from far away
My words are for you.
These stories must leave me some day
I bid you adieu and hope for a better day,
When my words will satisfy me and perhaps find their way to you.