of love

With great difficulty

I make my way

through the world,

like others before,

but mine.

A journey made easier by

an ever-fading exterior.

Limits set and broken,

and I have not recovered.


Notebooks filled with dark,

precise handwriting

surround me,

telling tales of tears, of wasted dreams.

Ghosts from other lives revisit

to remind me that they are dead,

and still I wonder what it means.


There is a method to the madness,

at least, I must believe,

to keep it up and spinning,

always in the same dress.

Searching for the next perfect waltz,

forever winning...

forever lost.

Reviews

[Dan Bullock]

Notebooks filled with dark,

precise handwriting

surround me,

telling tales of tears

- I love those honest, true to heart lines of remembering and recalling. I don't think dreams are wasting, ever, though...in any context!

You were just on the edge of a small ribbon in my contest here, so thank you for entering and having a spark of writing that was wonderfully different amongst many similar-themed entries.

Your words are played out beautifully.