Writing
The best form of therapy is this poem.
I have such a love of writing.
I’m sitting here praying,
It doesn’t walk away,
Like you did,
When you flashed your
Ice cold eyes,
As you said,
‘Yeah we got to catch up
Sometime.’
Because when you left,
You took every shred of protection
I had with you.
Writing built me back up.
It kept me sane,
As I lost my mind,
Trying to keep all the pieces
Of my crumbling life together.
With just some tape,
That failed me, time and time again,
Because if that leaves me,
Then I really am alone,
And I won’t accept that.
About the Creator
Irini Orihuela
An amateur poet who pretends she is Emily Dickinson
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Midnight
60 seconds… 59 seconds… Time was slipping through his fingers, though he clawed at the falling grains of sand, he could not stop the hourglass from flowing. Around him, the silence was deafening. He had taken over every screen in the command centre, putting the terrible seconds before the terrified eyes of his friends and comrades.
By Alexander McEvoy4 days ago in Fiction
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