A Writer Of Sorts

[aimlessvisionary]

I could do nothing. How could I do anything? I am fleeting. Like the tick of a second, from one moment to the next.

I'm not worthy of a glance. The words I say will pass through one ear, and out the other. And the things I say to keep people near will too, dance over their heads.

Regardless of whether I am a beautiful sunset, a sweet sundae, or a metaphor, I am temporary.

What I have is temporary. Therefore, I am temporary.

[aimlessvisionary]

Sometimes I feel like I'm left behind.

They'll laugh without me, play without me.

Talk without me and live without me.

Eventually I'll live without them, because they left me behind. I couldn't bear to call them selfish for leaving me in this world.

In truth, I am the selfish one, I am the sinner for wanting to keep them forever.

But they'll wilt like Daylilies and in that morning, I'll return like a Calla Lily.

And I'll miss them.

[aimlessvisionary]

I find myself at a standstill, more often than not.

More often when I've an idea, than when I've none.

But in moments where I have nothing, when walking a murky trail and treading the waters, more than ever do I have a want.

My enemy is my indecision and my greatest ally, my limits.