The paper turns beneath a finger—
Thin and flimsy,
Unaware of it's affect on your being.
The words run across the page—
Ice eyes melted by them,
And they end with the smallest of dots.
Frantically the search for more words—
The page yields nothing,
It's pale gaze unwavering.
All at once—
The story is ripped away,
And left is an empty hole the shape of its finality.
Frantically the search for a supplement—
And with it comes a price near unbearable to pay,
The cost of patience.
Quietly emotions fade—
In the background,
As if they never wracked your body.
The fruit of your patience—
Comes sudden, unexpected,
Yet gladly received.
And in it, you revel.
I KNOW IT'S CRAP.
IT'S LATE NIGHT AND I'M TRYING TO WRITE SOMETHING PROFOUND.
IT'S NOT WORKING.
I haven't posted in FOREVER. Since the beginning of September!
And guess what?
My dreams are coming true!
REACHED by Ally Condie comes out in TWO DAYS
*Enough twos for you?*
I think it's enough for me.
Lately I've been immersing myself into classics, and boy, are they awesome. No wonder people call them awesome!
Like someone said once, "Those who think Shakespeare is boring, don't understand him."
Les Miserables, The Odyssey, Dante's Inferno, and The Iliad serve to prove this person ^ right.
God, so many reviews to write.
So little will to do so.