My ink isn't dry,
it just heeds the needing of release,
and in this moment it is reserved
behind a dam of wowful thinking.
Will I unleash the gates, or stem the tide of
discontent.
Letting it linger in pools of what I feel deeper
than what others think.
A puddle is an illusion,
for it can linger in minimal space,
but beneath it
is a lagoon of sadness
that swallowed all I now think.
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
My ink isn't dry,
it just heeds the needing of release,
and in this moment it is reserved
behind a dam of wowful thinking.
Will I unleash the gates, or stem the tide of
discontent.
Letting it linger in pools of what I feel deeper
than what others think.
A puddle is an illusion,
for it can linger in minimal space,
but beneath it
is a lagoon of sadness
that swallowed all I now think.
