When I traverse the lowest valleys
and climb the highest peaks
I break forth my journal
my pencil and I feel
In the dark, it lights a path
in the light, it bursts the dark
though I must admit I write the most
when I'm in the dumps
I spit onto pages
venomous oceans of blue and black ink
in life, I've no way of reaching him
or is it for a person, a concept, or a thing?
Will pretty eyes mind poetry?
Or is that something misperceived?
Am I only screaming at dead trees
for the rest of my life; for eternity?
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 7:00 AM UTC
When I traverse the lowest valleys
and climb the highest peaks
I break forth my journal
my pencil and I feel
In the dark, it lights a path
in the light, it bursts the dark
though I must admit I write the most
when I'm in the dumps
I spit onto pages
venomous oceans of blue and black ink
in life, I've no way of reaching him
or is it for a person, a concept, or a thing?
Will pretty eyes mind poetry?
Or is that something misperceived?
Am I only screaming at dead trees
for the rest of my life; for eternity?
