“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Friday, June 10, 2016
Be wildered
When I think about it too hard
I get vertigo.
When I don't do anything,
I turn morbid and green.
When I consider giving up,
I feel less...
closer to Death-without it.
When I write, I feel right.
When I forget all of this
I make sense.
Painting By Frederick McCubbin, 'Lost' 1886 (1855-1917) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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