Upon these wrinkled pages
there are traces of me
left scribbled in ink.
My soul marks the margins
and the middles,
from left to right and sideways.
Pieces of paper painted
with half formed thoughts
I’d hoped would breathe
once they were penned
lay lifeless,
scattered corpses
of inspirations abandoned.
Wasted words, lost,
tossed in a box,
never discarded,
left to the worse fate
of being ignored
by the one who promised
to make them dance
for the world to see.
If I smoothed these pages
enough to set them free,
would they turn their backs
on me or be thankful,
grateful for my company?
I’m afraid to look upon them,
I don’t know what I’ll see
looking back at me.
~ CRC ~
. amazing piece .
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I love this.
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No word is wasted.
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If only I had kept mine. If only. What a treasure trove it would be!
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I admire anyone who can write poetry.
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Excellent!
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Love it!!!
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Reblogged this on cabbagesandkings524 and commented:
The Muse muses on old journal pages.
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Lovely and sad, but some may yet find life if only as seed for new words.
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Wow.. amazing piece ..
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Wonderful write. So sad to think I actually threw away all my jounals I had when I was younger. If you have the words, you can still make something of them.
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