I want to be a writer, someone pulling her pen from scratches and leaving you dumbfounded with what her ink had drawn in
I want to be someone, who'm I would be proud of after the days of my golden age, after my ears gone numb from listening to Alec, after a lot of committed omitted sins
After a lot of weather had passed, the automn gone missing, the sunny days covered by clouds and hence
Making me realize, how everyday, I want to be a writer
It's what my animosity begged for, when everyone gone quiet, when everything falls apart, I want to be the someone who would search for the right words so you could hear better
I want to be a writer, that sangs songs through the typewriter, like amidst the crowd, I standout, for I only sing with my paper
But once you have realized, it's not your inoccent's desire anymore that covers your story, but to impress people and be accepted by many
It's like a stab on a wound every writer have gone through, the feelings of a rose wanting to be blue, the venom of envy strucking your soul
Then you've gone mad, not knowing whether to start again, or to start at all
I escaped writing because my imaginations is no longer wild, no longer free, but cage in jealousy
It is not just from the other people that surpass everyone's expectation but my own idealism of my mirror's reflection
What they have is what I desire, now what I show is what they have, and completely forgotten what I truly love, then my fingers became numb
YOU ARE READING
One Hundred Fifty
RandomFifty, Fifty, Fifty A writing challenge for myself is to create fifty poems, fifty essays, and fifty one-shot stories, every single prekeng day to make it a hundred and fifty days of honing my skills and giving sparks to my interest. Here's the deal...
