I wish I could write everything. But there are times that feelings, maybe, only meant to be felt.
Should've I painted it. But wouldn't it be distorted from your sight? Will it be perfectly implicit like how it was vastly felt by my senses? Wouldn't it seem appart?
Will lying in verdure the ill or the elixir? Finding something unknown to search for faced like a silhouette in eclipse. Just like trying to look at myself in love's point of view. Maybe distorted or exact. Maybe biased or a fact. This maybe hunger either for satisfaction of my sanity and the sound of home breathing next to me to color my poetry.
It's neither melancholiac nor euphoric. It's the blank space in between. This language of life, maybe, only meant to be felt.
Estl. 01-18-24
YOU ARE READING
Poems and Prose and Girlhood
PoetryA gallimaufry of poetry and prose arose throughout my girlhood.
