It's cold here sometimes. Sometimes it's vacant and bare. The air stings the surface of a battered face that stares into nothing. It longs for a point of focus, its eyes marbleized by frozen tears and forgotten dreams. The gray ash of doubt collects around his chest and only the stripes of half hearted attempts to remove it show that there was something beneath. The hope has been beaten, the ambition was drained long ago, broken before he could know, the lonely passenger continued through this land without a second glance or a hesitation to the shift in the surface. Now his outside is as blistered and calised as his insides, so he no longer feels the wind on his face, the cool refreshing feeling of change on his lips. He is frozen. He has poured everything out, leaving nothing to give. He is frozen. Standing alone motionless in a land as barren and cold as he is. They stand motionless longing for one another. They are frozen.
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About Me
- J.L. Copeland
- I have been writing for years, but never knew that I was a writer. The expression itself was and has always been such a personal adventure that it never crossed my mind to allow others to partake in my work. I still don't call myself a writer or a poet, those titles go to the published or established, but I hope to obtain such entitlement in the very near future. But over all, I hope that I can spark some sort of discussion. Whether it's about my work and the emotions or thoughts that it has provoked, or even just about how pitful and weak my writing just might be. Either way, it is discussion and forcing some kind of thought! I hope you all enjoy! Feel free to email me at jlcope77@yahoo.com for any reason. Enjoy.
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