Time moves by so fast.
It never seems enough.
The seasons never last.
It's nature's yearly bluff.
Spring is swiftly winter,
and winter abruptly gone.
But the memories, warm and bitter,
is the gift that can be drawn.
I pluck them from my head
and put them all in jars,
the things I've heard and said
and stuff I've seen so far.
And on the days I'm empty
and my skull is filled with rocks,
I pull down ten or twenty
of my favorites from their spots
and live each one again
so that I can't forget
the places I have been
or the people I have met.
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...
