“The first sentence can’t be written until the final sentence is written.”
~ Joyce Carol Oates
Category: Writing
A few minutes ago, I decided to open a word document and freestyle, so of course I went right into poetry. Sadly, I wrote something depressing…so…enjoy, I guess.
(Please do not use this poem elsewhere without my permission)
Grease pours out from the cracks in the wall
Not a light to illuminate this dark room
A fiery hand against your icy skin
Is all that’s left within
A soft whisper breaks through your clogged throat
Laced with cold, icy-blue greed
The hand tightens to pierce your skin
An old legend just out of your grasp
Awake from the dream that was once known as “yourself”
You wander aimlessly, a puzzle piece
Searching for where you fit
But the empty spaces do not welcome
Such a misshapen shadow of the past
The flames lick your face
A whip of reminder and faith
“May the truth set you free”
But where is it said of the pain you shall feel?
A puzzle piece
One piece alone
Can never make such a complex whole
On its own
