Wasted

January 3, 2015

When I write, the words flow from my soul into the keyboard as my hands swipe through the addictions of many and lay waste to the clunky keys.

When I write, the world pauses and my mind is absorbed into such grotesque things which plague my heart and open my soul up for the influence of all.

When I write, nothing is what seems, and what seems is in fact, nothing.

Something wrong with this poem?

Replies are closed for this poem.

See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.

Comments (0)

No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.