Two minutes…

it takes two minutes,
to put down the pen,
stop writing my heart,
putting soul to paper
and breaking the art.
but it takes twice that,
twenty times that too,
and at times longer,
to start where I left it.
I wonder why it is so;
does the heart forget
what it wants after?
or in two minutes,
has it moved on now
to something else?
it takes two minutes,
just the two minutes,
for breaking the art,
and with it, my heart.


 

Shared with OctPoWriMo Day 2 and UBC Day 2.


 
(2nd Oct 2014)

Leo_new_sign1

Poetry & writing to me are to me, a breath of fresh air in a life that is sometimes covered by the smoke of sorrow or self doubt. They also become the sweets I share to celebrate when life offers me a reason to. But most of all, they are to me, my life. For each word I write is a piece of my heart, a thought that just had to find its way into the world.

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