Blog Post 3.2
As empty as a beggar’s hands.
As weak as a new-born kitten.
Gathered together like the pieces of a puzzle.
As rough as the stubble on my face.
Trembling like a puppy in the snow.
Praying like a devout noun.
Bouncing like a scam artist’s check.
Smiling like an innocent child.
Heart of rusted iron.
Mountains of plastic-wrapped butter rolls.
War is the pastime of the rich and bored.
The ocean is a jealous lover.
The moon is the child birthed from the earth.
This house of unfulfilled dreams.
My love is a phoenix rising from its ashes.
Writing is the key that opens all doors of creativity.
After years of praying like a devout noun my resolve finally becomes as weak as a new-born kitten. That was my last resort, my final attempt to attain fulfilling happiness. As I walk back home from being stood-up once again, I look up at the solitary moon. The moon is the child birthed from the earth, yet it has no life upon it as its mother does. I, too, have no life around me, as much as I am the son of a woman who has touched the lives of so many. My only comfort is my writing, the key that opens all doors of creativity, the one refuge in which I may express my miserable feelings in security. Returning my eyes to the ground, I trudge back to my house of unfulfilled dreams.
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