I now know why writer's are holed up in the mountains, living in log cabin and eating rodents. Writing makes you crazy. Well here is a piece that I wrote in late January. I used to think I was ok with it but the more I look at it or think about it the less I like it. It's untitled.
The sound of your voice hurts
I’ve worried and cried
But gave up
I tried and tried
But gave up
The look on your face scares me
It’s grave
Sunken and painful to watch
Time has taken its toll
On your body and my soul
Life moves on without us
I know dreams don’t come true
And if hope really lived here
I could believe you would get better
And I wouldn’t try to convince myself
I haven’t given up
I may have talked to some of you about the last line and my inability to just make grammar work. I think I will post something else since this is so short.
tamara
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