Hey! It's been ages since I've written anything, I hope you like this one, I've been working on it for about a month in English class.
Everything's so monotone.
I can write pretty words
in the most gorgeous cursive,
but it'll still sound the same.
Writting in metaphors doesn't
make tragedy any more beautiful.
The secrets I hide.
Skelletons deteriorate as the
smell of ink strenthens.
Fingers pressing hard against the pen,
taking out frustration, making sure
I put everything I have into this
meaningless pile of scribbled letters.
Universality is my favorite enemy.
You can relate, but that
doesn't mean you understand.
As I spill my heart through this pen,
can you feel what I feel?
Connotations can be deceiving.
You can read the pretty words,
but you can't read a feeling.