Feb 07


I wrote a song on the back
of my hand
but managed to forget all the words.
I read you a story
that no one enjoyed
except for the paper birds.

I exist in silence
like a quiet flood
threatening to overflow.
Uniqueness is futile
humans fall as one
just take a glance at the snow.

I stand on scaffolding
built from my dreams
which waver in the sky.
I think I'm a believer 
but somedays
I just want to sit down and cry.

In my blood,
runs poetry and somewhere, hope
because eventually, I get a voice.
Be thankful
because by being alive
someone gave you a choice.

About the Author: LadyMidnight
"There is nothing to writing. All you have to do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." - Ernest Hemmingway