After 12
Written By: Tequilamockingbird22
December 16, 2017
FREE WRITING
The night blows its forbidding breeze.
Within the walls of my bedroom, my mind envisions a smile of his. One that made everything fade. One that arrests my attention with ease.
Within the halls of my school, my head tumbles over a future with him. Promises and hopes that are prolific in my thinking. But the probabilities of crossing paths again were slim.
Forlorn figures encompass me. Medicament, drama, and money. Now I long for his hilarity, to take me out of their ill mentality.
As my I stroll down to Starbucks, I feel the urge to run amok. To scream, to cry, to let it all out.
When I'm the middle of class, I dig deep into another part of myself. Every story I hold, of my own, stays on my bookshelf. I keep them all in, but I take them all out. All I'm left with is false hope and doubt.
I reread them. They read the same, only I can understand the plots better. Embracing a threaded sweater, one that's as old as time, and its warmth reminds me of a love letter from a joyful ink.
Now it's after 12, still in my bed, and the confrontation between my heart and my mind continues. Which do I listen to? To whom do I bid adieu? My world hanging askew, I start to ask you.
What do I do?
Within the walls of my bedroom, my mind envisions a smile of his. One that made everything fade. One that arrests my attention with ease.
Within the halls of my school, my head tumbles over a future with him. Promises and hopes that are prolific in my thinking. But the probabilities of crossing paths again were slim.
Forlorn figures encompass me. Medicament, drama, and money. Now I long for his hilarity, to take me out of their ill mentality.
As my I stroll down to Starbucks, I feel the urge to run amok. To scream, to cry, to let it all out.
When I'm the middle of class, I dig deep into another part of myself. Every story I hold, of my own, stays on my bookshelf. I keep them all in, but I take them all out. All I'm left with is false hope and doubt.
I reread them. They read the same, only I can understand the plots better. Embracing a threaded sweater, one that's as old as time, and its warmth reminds me of a love letter from a joyful ink.
Now it's after 12, still in my bed, and the confrontation between my heart and my mind continues. Which do I listen to? To whom do I bid adieu? My world hanging askew, I start to ask you.
What do I do?