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Apr 2021
On the wooden tiles,
the tanned shade a reminder
of tiny grains of sand,
the border to the ocean,
to the unknown.

On the wooden tiles,
where words flow out my fingertips
like a snowboarder slides
over serene snow,
leaving a scraped scene in her path.

On the wooden tiles,
where I do my best thinking.

A journal to my left,
the reminder of my past.
My memories.
A melody of murkiness clearing
into lines of text,
serifs removed
as Iā€™m reminded of the truth.

A font is a beautiful thing.

My mind is a font
of which I paint with lead,
little lines, circles, and swirls
transforming before me,
recorded for eternity
in the open notebook to my right.

Right where I form my future,
my wishes,
my dreams.

Dreams created on a
teal and tanned typewriter,
erasure impossible,
only blocked out and burned,
escape imminent,
awoken as I turn off the screen.
Written by
Juliana  19/F/Michigan
(19/F/Michigan)   
545
 
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