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Poetry

Old Haunts/New Smells

A new smell, it’s not my own
It feels odd to be in a place
So familiar but I am leaving it
The feelings of anxiety and panic
Should be imminent but they appear
Repressed. instead being here
I am wrapped up in comfort and ease.

I have not written anything worth
Anything in some time yet I try.
And for what? The comfort of words,
I suppose. They are constant and
Give me the feeling that as long as
I can keep them flowing I will be okay.

Writing as if speaking is the oddest
Form I have discovered yet, however
When here it is difficult not to speak
To my hands as they type so effortlessly
And excitable by a new word or witty phrase.

Enjoying these small moments of
Personal time to accomplish anything
And nothing at the same time are
Probably the best moments I can live.

This is less a poem than a personal
Conversation setup as some type of poem,
Which I probably made up anyway.

Whoever said writing has style and rules
is a shame to overall human creativity.

However, maybe I’m wrong and this is shit.

Like this post? View similar content here: Journey Of The Creative Self – How To Gain Back What’s Been Lost

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by misselsalouise

29 year-old horror movie, experimental literature, and cat obsessed female living in Los Angeles. I have a knack for remembering the smallest things and forgetting the most important pieces. I love writing about books, movies, and feelings. My fashion can best be descried as garden party goth and my personality most closely remembers that of a punk grandma.

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