I am writing a letter because my silence has been grated and i am tiring of the absence. I am a page left curling against the heat of pigeon-winged coal, guided only by typographic strings that bar the way to speaking out. 212 more words
But only when the whirring mass finally halted did I hear your voice, and by then it was too late. If only I’d have traveled more quietly instead of wailing with the rest of them, instead of counting every revolution by these words that now are useless.
A conduit of creativity shot straight through my heart, surged down my arm, electrified my fingers as I penned each word. I knew I was in touch with my deepest creative self, as if my muse was writing through me… encouraging me to blossom. 190 more words