i write i must
to fulfill my lust
my lust to find words that rhyme.
the writings i write
may not mean right
because its only for sight.
everyday I sit and I stare,
as I swing against the summer breeze,
into the cloud and into the flare,
taking a moment to finally breathe.
thoughts make a mess,
into my head they ingress,
puzzling, confusing, as can be,
one thing is clear to me -
it is you I miss.
when winter nears,
and leaves disappear,
neither the cold nor wind,
could blow you off my mind.
its like you are here, tight and bind.
I know, I truly know,
I stand alone in the cold.
with nothing but a broken sock.
because I hold on to that thought,
only to never be missed back.
but here I am, higher and higher I swing,
deeper and deeper I fall in esthetic,
the blank spiral of self empathy,
trying not to be dramatic,
only trying to express this feeling.