writing is thinking

the feeling of being happy is./ music is my process of thinking/ lectures are a tool for daydreams/ drowning is not the same as sinking

i love the concept of reading a book/ a story unlike my own is entirely mine/ anybody can read the same story/ but it’s only the characters and you in those lines

i read and i write and only read and write/ the perspectives that leave me enthralled/ the dynamics keep me up for hours/ the ideas the authors have installed

the ideas that create my own story/ i type and i write and i scribble them down/ i’ve made stories and letters and poems and essays/ meaning more than just their verbs and nouns

i’m no better than a painter with crayola/ my works are no worse than those of the greats/ i take on my work with a humbled ego/ the contradictory is a content weight

no talking

Dependent I’ve become/ after months and months of talking/ and now all i recieve is silence/ i wish it wasn’t so shocking

Yet i don’t want to move first/ worried of forced conversation/ so i sit in my bedroom/ all my songs, one long duration

So, update. I’m realizing I suck at poems and it’s kind of killing me because nothing seems decent when I write it and all my “decent” ones are just about inanimate objects. What does that say about me? Can I not write? Do I force myself to write too much? Just because I can rhyme doesn’t mean I can just build stanzas that have any depth. Yet, I keep checking my snap and there’s nothing new from anybody and I can only hope that writing passes the time because the night is long. -me, cosmo susie