elise.writer

I wish my younger self was wise enough to know
that Time is a fragile thing.
Time is a tender thing.
Time is one tender, fragile, evolving, ever-changing, finiciky, invincible thing.
Don't touch it. It will break.

Ask me of my hardships,
and I will tell you mine.
Tell me of your hardships,
and I will listen.

I will tell you about sorrow.
I will tell you about grief.
I will tell you about pain.

....even though the time was perfect. holding my breath,
(i shouldn't be writing this. shouldn't be posting this.
i'm ranting, really. it's nothing. don't bother to lay your eyes on it.)
11:11, 11/11/22. funny, because 11 + 11 even = 22.

1. My flesh met the fogginess of the world, and I opened my eyes — so bright, too bright.

When I write,
the wind is a paintbrush
to my Dreams, carrying them
to my tender palm.
Imagination has free reign
on Infinity's masterpiece, so
she runs wild, wild and free.
When I write,
Everything is at my fingertips

I think the weather's having a bad day.
When she walks, her toes make trails in the mud, reluctant as they drag along.
When she walks, each foot is so heavy that the ground sags and frowns, and each step costs the effort of a mile.