My soul is a wandering train following tracks I can’t seem to pinpoint
Destinations in places I can no longer see
Cloudy fog turning into white paper- infinite and empty yet so full of potential
Ink droplets the size of peaches falling from trees of thoughts fostering thoughts
Fostering thoughts fostering
Falling into dirt to grow nothing
The only way I can capture the essence of my soul –
Comprehensible enough for meager human brain is to write them on paper-
Is to etch their mortal moaning onto thin flammable scraps of leaves
And sometimes I wonder
Could these leaves have been from the very tree that fosters madness?
That drops mere packets of human thought into the dirt
You would have never known my thoughts had I not spelled them out in ink and pixels for you.
These words are the only tangible testimony to my existence.
A cycle of wandering
A cycle of wanting
A cycle of craving existence
Guest contribution by Ayah; she is a student at UIC pursuing a Communications major.
Click here to see more of her work!