Different Depths We See

Until our minds are parched parchment prepared and longing for education the greatest pen refuses to write anything.

So sure in our ineligible unreadable monologues, wearing thick band blindfolds swearing our self-righteous pages are full, they stay empty.

Perhaps they are full of ink made of air, disappearing as we make think we’re making significant contact, fooled, deceived, duped by ourselves.


And this is the part where I talk about me, slipping in emotions about what I feel, playing the violin, fingertips on a harp, out of tune.

Who am I? What makes my emotional baggage special? Do I think my voice is significant?


What are you thinking about after reading this?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.