Writing, writing is truly beautiful, the way
I see it. I can tell you what’s in
my head whoever you may be that I cannot
know at this point in time (as I don’t know
who will read this right now) You. You can
read my thoughts. And that voice inside
your head, momentarily becomes mine. Or at
least, speaks what I have written. And
so your mind speaks the words of mine,
as the words I write are from my mind.
Written through lines now coloured by time.
Somewhere down the line you’ll shine if
you haven’t already, just wait and smile.
No, don’t do that. Do what’s right, end your
inconceivable plight. Wrench your arm out
of it’s wedged state. It’s wedged in a hole
you couldn’t escape. It’s a
pit. A pitiful
pit. Deeper, wider, than any little slit. But
you created it, I can understand that. We
are all ourselves and the quicker you learn
that, the quicker you come back. Communicating
with another just as yourself. Just
as lost and helpless in themselves.
But you’re the only one you can trust let alone
help. Do it for yourself. Forget about whether
or not you deserve this or that, who gives a
"I’m here!" remember that? "There’ll be
no more shunting me aside. I have pride.
Though not the evil kind… just proud to
Don’t hide. Don’t be shy. You’re
here. Now show us why.
Now I hope you have gained from what you’ve just read,
You’re lucky, you know, to have thought the thoughts in my head.