There’s this letter I sent.
Now I’m left with a wound well bent.
Had finally found the courage to compose, probably something like prose.
Then poetry rose and conquered the course.
The words flowed like a river, on innocent paper it just drove.
I wrote of someone close, of someone who believed in the depths of me.
And could lift up my spirits, with just a touch from therein.
The one who felt where my feet would lead. Before I could even daydream.
When the river flowed out and the car stopped.
The page became a piece of me.
I sent it through a common ocean, the paper in a common bottle.
I can’t believe how excited I was then because now I’m so terrified I just want to hide in a den.
Acceptance or rejection, my mind will explode for redemption.
A minute feels a century, A second feels a year.
There is no place to hide on this sphere.
If what you’re hiding from is up here.
So whatever is coming has to be near. The distance to breakdown, is like my brain and my ear.
Until the day that it’s here, I’ll be a warrior with a spear.
Survival is so dearing.
Because there is this letter I sent. Now I’m left with a wound well bent.