"Create," they whisper in their honeyed voices, because even if your mind and stomach is empty, the desire in your hands won't go away.
It tingles as they grab for anything and everything. Pencils, cloth, yarn, wood, flour- The possibilities are endless. Even when you feel or lack feeling something. They still have that itch as they clutch onto objects for the sake of leaving something behind. Conveying to you, and anyone that can see or hear or feel, that they exist, have existed, and won't exist forever.
They forge together as much as they can before your time runs out.
YOU ARE READING
A few sentiments
PoetryEverything is in shambles, but that's just how it is with nonsense writings. It contains (very) short stories, poetry, and just words in general that are strung together and might or might not hold some meaning. Basically anything my sleep deprived...
