We chase wild dreams at the tip of our pens,
every word every stroke brings us closer.
But at times, our draft—it just doesn’t make sense…
We can’t help but believe us a poser.
Still, the dream, the pen, calls out to our hearts—
and we try, put it back to the paper.
Every word, every stroke is a wonder!
As our instincts kick in – full of hunger,
we’re hunters that chase, hunt down our prey!
We won’t let our doubts win, lead us astray—
we will howl for our pack, our dearest friends.
Dreams are waiting at the tip of our pens.

I live past midnight
when the world is quiet
my loud thoughts
can finally seep out

-em vidar

What is left for me to write
That hasn’t already crossed the page?
My heart aches for something new
Something real to embrace
To put into place
The stale waste that has captured my heart.

Time trailing away,
Waiting for things to change.
I want to adventure,
To explore,
To be brave and face all the things
I tell myself are for people with less fear than me.

Stuck in a half panic,
I am exhausted all the time
From a fear of everything.
But I want to feel something different
Excitement, hope, achievement
Change.
I need to feel something change.

I know the time is coming,
I know I need to wait
Just a little longer.
I need to hold steady,
Keep the fear at bay,
And when things change

Take the leap of faith,
Experience the world I want to see,
Be the person I needed,
Do the right things,
But mostly
I want to live.

Then, maybe,
I’ll have something new
To grace the page
I’m ready
To find something new to say.

I want something unwritten.

i am bone-tired and befogged with melancholia; i cannot wait to fall and bounce cheerlessly in a field of forlorn, arenaria flowers, all over the sunless forest floor. leave me be — a strange girl in a sleepy, run-down town. leave me be — a hopeless case in my own quiet apocalypse.

My mind whirls in never-ending revolutions
Searching for something to put into a physical form
But to no avail.
A deep maelstrom, ******* in, but never putting out.
Seeking to manifest, yet without means or material to do so.
I wonder stuck aloft inside my own brain.
How.
How do I do this, I think, brooding over my own thoughts.
Sentence after sentence and nothing appears.
A terrible curse entrenched in my head
And benumbing my very process of thought.
The Energy of a supernova spewing out an inordinate amount.
I need to transform it,
Put it into production,
Set it to work so I don't perish along
With my own shortcomings and flaws.
Still, no matter how hard I stress my mind, I’m left with nothing.
A veritable nothing.
What am I to do
What do I do-