dedicated to FanOfWayTooMuch
***
we all have our own pages to fill:
words to write, thoughts to scribble
down onto yellowed paper. we have
the power to change the narrative. in
the dim glow of a table lamp, we
write out the story we want to live, the
world we have created for ourselves.
in darkness, we clutch our pens
and scratch late into night's hold,
trying to climb our way out of a
well with ropes made of sentences.
every memory is an ink stain, every
wish, every dream is a pencil mark.
all these chapters we have not written
live on within us. we exist to breathe
in the smell of our own books. we
twine people in with words of love,
a character in their stories, too.
we deserve a beautiful epilogue,
darling. and just because the book
is written, doesn't mean it is the end.
just pick up another stack of paper,
pick up a pen, and start writing again.
YOU ARE READING
the colour of mirrors
Poetrybecause there's only ever a moment, in between the waiting and the ones who are waited for.
