sjsprWriting

I found you writing at the corner of Manderley and Johnson. Your finger tips curled as your wrote about hate and they started to bleed when you wrote about love. I found you inbetween the cracks of old buildings, writing about the green ivy that now started to grow on your back and about the passing people who apparently don't see things the way that you do. You wrote without ever looking up, fixated on pen and paper, words on words. You write about yourself most of the time, about life and the way in which it handed you all of the wrong cards. Again, you never look up, you never see all of the helping hands. You write about the seasons and always include a link to your sadness. You never look up, you never see the spring birds nor feel the summer warmth. The last time I saw you writing, you did so furiously, intensley...because one day, you finally looked up.