An unkindness in the lure a conspiracy craving more I cannot adapt, I’m sure! in this insanity I adore the murder of the flock the hands of the ticking clock I cannot tell if this is reality or if it’s not
There are times when I hate being a writer. I feel too much. Words tend to flow uncontrollably. And it sucks.
Poetry flowed out of me. I could hardly contain it. Even if I wanted to. I wasn't sleeping well at the time, I was working through a lot of emotions and feelings and all those teenage woes made great food for fodder. I wrote about relationships with my parents, with friends, with boys. I wrote about a relationship that needed to cease.
Let me begin this letter by being honest; I am a writer. I’m a writer and being a writer means laying inordinate deal of thought into the words we use in almost every situation we are in. Though letters and…