I am an freelance writer. I love the written word and the poetry of my soul is expressed by mastery of it.
The pictures hung off the wall like brief nods to the time before this, they were slanted and buckled . The walls looked haphazardly strewn up, and the curtains hung in unhappy, unsymmetrical clumps, begging for breeze, for a breath of fresh.
I walked down the dirt road, barefoot, clutching the ragged teddy bear in my left hand. Tears streamed down my soot smeared face and in my head I sung to myself. It was a mixture of old world hymns and modern anthems, that kept my grief from spilling into the wide forlorn world.
Love is love, they say. I’ve now heard it so many times. Once, before it became a modern by phrase I believed the authorship solely mine. I’ve seen it in slogans, marketed on products and in every other way. I suppose it serves its purpose. Love always does.