The ego
Lives to impress
Clawing to undress
Every inch
To display as a masterpiece
A vision
In awe
Only allowing applause
When it feels satisfied
Which it never is
So it scatters dreams
Claiming goals
Disguising purpose
With indecisive passion
Pushing past people
To pursue false gains
Proposing the brain
Is the end game
A starving cycle
Rebirthed by the duty
Of the deity
That is itself
Ego
About the Creator
Veronica
I am the moss silken on watered stones, rooted deep in rich soil. Earthen creature, I am the night sky -starry and strayed from the forgotten path of poets - I am, the chatter from the iron rails rattling as the train carries itself home.
Perfect Little Pirate
The rough, sodden rope bit into her fingers as she swung over the roiling water far below. Reaching out with the toe of her boot, she managed to catch hold of the rain-soaked railing of the ship- and promptly slipped. Throwing herself forward, she landed hard on the deck, slamming her elbows against the wood planks. The sharp yelp of pain quickly bubbled into a laugh, and she rolled onto her back, laughing up at the gray sky as a torrent of rain washed away the soot covering her skin.
By M. A. Mehan 4 days ago in Fiction
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