No title

[creekstersheart]

This winter white frost has forced me inside
Here I am warm, restful and bitter to be so
This happiness barely suits me
The contentment in my life is hard and hardly welcome
I feather the pages inside my head
Step through the words and feel death stepping on my toes
From words written in years past
I remember the torment of being with you,
And it is oddly

Comments

[anonymous]

I really like that, and I can relate to that. Being unhappy is perfect for interesting poetry/stories.

crimsonpromise

[anonymous]

wow, i truly love this poem, we have a lot in common it seems.
great writing. :)

kakakaboom (sparksss)

[anonymous]

i can understand this so well. well said

a complicated inertia (moth__eaten)

[anonymous]

Hi! I thought the poem was good. I'm curious about the second line... it doesn't seem right. <--the way it ends with "so" it seems like your thought is incomplete

I think my favorite line is: "I am dry, without inspiration" Very good!

stalkings

[creekstersheart]

Hmm. The line makes sense to me, and I believe it to be correct. "...and bitter to be so." If I'm wrong, definitely let me know but if you re-read it maybe it'll sound correct.

But then again if I get this response a few times, maybe I should consider changing it.

Thanks for the comment :)

J

[anonymous]

who knows? I think maybe I was reading it wrong. I read it again just now and it makes sense?? LOL

[anonymous]

WOW, Jenny. I love it. VERY honest. This is the stuff great writing is made of.

M