death of a Poet

I've always dreamt of being a storyteller.
One who devotes their life to the art of telling stories by spilling their soul upon a blotted page.
When I was much younger I could tell you of the many adventures that took my imagination for a spin.
I thought by now I'd have seen more than this town that no longer serves me, I believed there would be far more beauty than heartache and ink letters read by more eyes than my own.
Oh, how I was wrong.
I'm grown enough to accept plans are made to be broken, but that doesn't make the constant hurt fall away.
Tell me that it's not too late, that all my greatest adventures are around the corner.
My wild spirit has grown cold
I feel as if I am not my own but rather an empty human wasting her time.
I despise my existence-
I want to feel alive.  

◄ Vagabond.

darlin you'll be okay ►


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