Personal Story
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Eric Swearingen
EARLY MORNING FOG
Walking to school in the morning,
A day in fall where the fog devoured the streets
If I were to complain,
whine, or moan
Would it make a difference?
Would there be a point?
Does matter if I say
My life may have been better
Had things gone this way
Or that way?
Words were just words before poetry,trails of letters, strings of sentences,No rhythm, no rhyme, no meaning. The voice that was minewas a bucket of gray paint,and I was not content, For within me I knew
