In the attic, there's a typewriter.
It moves all on its own.
And any words I mutter,
on the paper they get shown.
I can't keep them to myself.
Believe me, I have tried.
Sometimes they get misspelled
when I try too hard to hide.
But each word on the paper,
they've all crossed through my heart
because I am their maker
and they, my work of art.
YOU ARE READING
Ghostwriter
PoetryLiving with mental illness can oftentimes trap one within the inner maze of their mind. In that place, dreams, fears, wishes, and regrets all compile together to create a new world far from the one we physically exist in. At times, it becomes easy t...
