Winged in the chaos am I,

The roots of enchant broke;

Stayed the distress in my soul,

Finding nowhere to go;

Is it the past that’s cursing you,

Confused my mind spoke;

Questions are not now to answer,

You have the heart to invoke;

Riddled are my inside thoughts,

Pain flows like a smoke;

Shattered are the fantasies,

Leaving the brain’s cloak;

Solace is the treasure only some find,                        

Insane I ate berries of scoke.

Published by penfluky

Writing is not a skill acquired through practice. Not for us, at least. Writing is a phenomenon that occurred to us when we wanted to shout our thoughts out. It happened when our brains formed a labyrinth of thoughts with no way out. The only way was to break the walls, the walls we constructed in our minds—the walls which stopped us from letting ourselves out. We broke the barriers using the mightiest weapon, the pen. Writing was our way out of that maze. Words and sentences flowed like a stream of some river, which consisted of A2Z instead of H2O. Soon the river filled the brain and the labyrinth was not visible anymore.

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