In the shadows of my mind there are words lurking. Entire sentences even. Behind a cluster of neurons an ode is being written. In the shadowy depths, there is a cauldron of emotion bubbling into a ballad.
I wonder why I write all this. I wonder why I even post my pain here. After all, this is the wwwide peep show.
But then, no one ever asked why Sylvia Plath ever wrote to be published . . .
I’m not Sylvia.
I’m not Alanis.
I’m a broken heart that’s learning to sing again. And dance.
May I lady?
I wonder why I write all this. I wonder why I even post my pain here. After all, this is the wwwide peep show.
But then, no one ever asked why Sylvia Plath ever wrote to be published . . .
I’m not Sylvia.
I’m not Alanis.
I’m a broken heart that’s learning to sing again. And dance.
May I lady?
3 comments:
Isn't it ironic
Don't you think?
noojes
broken records don't sing.
am not so sure about broken hearts, but i think they do.
i have seen u sing...it animates your face and being.
so, of course u must, sing again and soon.
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