WildFlower

She said writing poems is like traipsing through water. You run fast, fast as you can, hardly thinking about the birds flying above your head, or the fact that you can barely see, because the sun is ripping through your skin, leaving you blinded, no you don't think at all; you just run. And when you reach the land you're so out of breath, and your lungs are filled with salt water, instead of air. It burns the inside of your chest like the sun that burned your skin, but that pain feels...
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She said writing poems is like traipsing through water. You run fast, fast as you can, hardly thinking about the birds flying above your head, or the fact that you can barely see, because the sun is ripping through your skin, leaving you blinded, no you don't think at all; you just run. And when you reach the land you're so out of breath, and your lungs are filled with salt water, instead of air. It burns the inside of your chest like the sun that burned your skin, but that pain feels so incredible, that you forget to do anything except to breathe. When you reach the land and your toes entangle in the tall grass for the first time, you don't know how you got there, or how long you had been treading water, the only proof you have is the inability to catch your breath, and the soreness in your feet. There are so many words inside my chest, that grow in me like flowers, and bloom out my finger tips as poems carved into air. I stand inhaling and exhaling this wind around me, that's filled with feelings and the smell of rain, with each breath I am shattered from the inside out, but still I drag in these splintered words into my fragile lungs, again and again.