My thoughts flow free from the hives of my mind onto the papers adorned with the glow of the very early morning—weariness, the price I pay to give my words wings. Like a madwoman, I feel split. Either romanticize the truth or freely share it or tell shiny fiction. Laboring like a souped-up engine, I am witness to why I strive so much. What pours forth is nothing short of genius.
“Poor woman,” said the doctor from the observation window. “She’s been entirely too maniacal during her stint at this asylum. Give her a shot and calm her down. Stat.”
I Write Her 
Always welcome ☺️
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Words were used to perfection in this poem, Susi!
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I appreciate the praise, Sara! 🙂
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Wow this was an amazing read 🌸
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Thank you so much! 🙂
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Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.
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Beautifully crafted! You have to be a little insane to think anyone would like what you put out! And yet they do day after day!!
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Thanks so much, Dwight! I guess that makes me a whacko! 😉
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Me too!
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🙂
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Wooo great 👌
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Thank you!
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Always welcome ji ☺️💐
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The line between madness and genius is very thin!
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Excruciatingly thin. 🙂
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failed the test
best thing fa now and how
cos my heart was not in it
fuck it
free me
see me
or just move on out and over
cya
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Cya – that’s how my husband’s ex-wife would always sign off on letters.
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What an intriguing story Susi. All the words are so aptly used.
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I hope I’m not ever driven to that state but anything is possible! 😉 Thanks, Sadje!
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I hope so too. You’re so
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I’m so what? 😉
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So good at this! Sorry for the half comment
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❤️ No worries!
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👍🏼👍🏼👍🏼
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