"widdles" poems
Are you ever so unsure about your feelings for someone? Like you might love them so much that it drives you to hate them with all your being? The desire to crash your lips against theirs repulsing you to the point that it slowly widdles your brain into a mixingpot of emotions of both love and loath
n.p.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
The woodcarver
Chips away at his creation
The old, steady hands
Crafting something of perfection
Each wood shaving falling away,
piece by piece,
gives way to a more and more beautiful masterpiece.
But halfway through,
he sits, and he rests.
The creation still stands on the workbench, incomplete.
Time goes on,
and on, and on…. yet the unhatched egg of a figurine still remains.
And one day, the carver again takes it into his hands.
“Finally, your time has come”
He sits back, and he widdles, and widdles….and widdles.
The wooden sculpture at last takes its final form.
And although it was finished last,
and he had made hundreds of items in the past,
the piece that took the longest,
was much more precious than any other piece he had ever made before.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 10:11 PM UTC