Writing Comes To Me

Every word, every phrase, 
Every comment, every praise
Every single quiet trace of my pen.
Letters bleed out, arranging themselves on the page,
My mind has left with it.
Writing comes to me.

A tin of pencils, tips so dull
Sit across the table, growing full
Memories crack, left to mull over 
The goals I have achieved,
People say it’s the writer I am and the writer I’ll be.
I say writing comes to me. 


 
c

crisscross

NY

17 years old

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  • Poetry

    By crisscross

    Release

    She was born in the radiation era, 
    A veil of marble covers her eyes,

    Her lids webbed in waves: 

    They were stitched too tight

    to permit the penetration 

    of the perpetrator.

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  • Poetry

    By crisscross

    supernova

    when a star dies, it is a violent explosion.

    it can emitt more light than an entire solar system.

    and while it pulses with hot gas and blue light,

    it slowly dims. until its remnants are scattered

    Read More