There are words missing from the last poem I posted.
Words. Words that meant something, words that were carefully chosen in the heat of the moment, in the heat of the anguish that I felt, in the entirety of everything, I chose those words to write down. And now they're missing.
I took up writing because I couldn't draw. I've always wanted to draw. I always wanted to make my own graphic novel. A seemingly absurdist story in which nothing happens but at the end of it, you feel like you've aged a couple years, but in the good way, like wine. So here I write. Write and write and write and I've got nothing to say.
And there I missed words.
I once made my professor cry during an interview after my creative writing course. It was inspired by Hemingway's "End of Something". It's something that's always stuck with me. That I made someone cry because of what I had written. Words. I moved with words.
Words. Words that meant something, words that were carefully chosen in the heat of the moment, in the heat of the anguish that I felt, in the entirety of everything, I chose those words to write down. And now they're missing.
I took up writing because I couldn't draw. I've always wanted to draw. I always wanted to make my own graphic novel. A seemingly absurdist story in which nothing happens but at the end of it, you feel like you've aged a couple years, but in the good way, like wine. So here I write. Write and write and write and I've got nothing to say.
And there I missed words.
I once made my professor cry during an interview after my creative writing course. It was inspired by Hemingway's "End of Something". It's something that's always stuck with me. That I made someone cry because of what I had written. Words. I moved with words.
Of course you know,
everybody knows.
Would you listen if I wrote it
in the sand with my toes,
the way we used to?
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