Not better
Medicine is not working. -_-' I really am beginning to wonder if I'm resistant to antibiotics. Especially since I've had so much. I always seem to be taking some kind of antibiotic. I suppose I should give it more time and hope for the best.
On a different note, I've decided to take up poetry. I think I have a small gift for it, although I could just be trying too hard to find something I'm excellent at. If there was anything I might possibly be famous for, it would be poetry. Although, I think few people become famous because of that, and I doubt I'm good enough. But here's to hoping. Everyone needs a dream, right?
Drifting slowly through my dreams,
grasping at old memories.
Finding that they’re not worth keeping
I sit and slowly start re-weaving.
Sadness melts as black threads bleach white;
bright threads become brighter.
The smothering darkness becomes light;
the bitter cold a fire.
Smiles tear from dampened dreams
laughter from the painful scenes.
Your exploding anger is diluted
in a sea of brightly colored memories.
But then the threads begin to break;
the weave is no longer bright.
And sometimes the cloth is stained
by the tears I cry, alone at night.
And I don’t know why I’m crying
or why I seem to love the pain.
Sometimes I wonder why I’m trying,
and what I want to gain.
On a different note, I've decided to take up poetry. I think I have a small gift for it, although I could just be trying too hard to find something I'm excellent at. If there was anything I might possibly be famous for, it would be poetry. Although, I think few people become famous because of that, and I doubt I'm good enough. But here's to hoping. Everyone needs a dream, right?
Drifting slowly through my dreams,
grasping at old memories.
Finding that they’re not worth keeping
I sit and slowly start re-weaving.
Sadness melts as black threads bleach white;
bright threads become brighter.
The smothering darkness becomes light;
the bitter cold a fire.
Smiles tear from dampened dreams
laughter from the painful scenes.
Your exploding anger is diluted
in a sea of brightly colored memories.
But then the threads begin to break;
the weave is no longer bright.
And sometimes the cloth is stained
by the tears I cry, alone at night.
And I don’t know why I’m crying
or why I seem to love the pain.
Sometimes I wonder why I’m trying,
and what I want to gain.