Just My Type
If you divided me into atoms, into quintessential practicals. you would've discovered that I'm made out of ink and letters. I am what I write, past, present and future. I don't create artistic work anymore, I don't write poems nor short stories. I don't wake up in the middle of the night with half a verse stuck into my head and the other half still making its way from my heart through my veins, around the green liquid in a glass bottle in my neck that is my soul, to my mushy pinky brain. No. I don't do that. Not me. Not anymore. Now I'm writing about my daily life, the pots and the pans, the days when I work and the days when I don't, the socks and the thongs. Well, maybe not about the last two but you get my point.
But will you write about me sometime?
You can't get lost if you don't know where you're going...
