Moulded to Perfection
Your feelings matter, even if they don't think so.
Every thought, every feeling,
spills over my face, drips from my tone,
pools at my sleeves.
I am drenched in who I am,
head to toe, a storm of raw honesty.
I wish I could soften myself for you.
But I won’t twist my words
to fit the mould you’ve made.
I will not bend my voice
to the tune you wish to hear.
I will not play the role
of the person you’ve sculpted in your mind.
I will not be put back where my thoughts withered, unspoken.
About the Creator
Sadie
I know it says "Enya" but I have always gone by Sadie. Just feels more like me. I have been writing for a long time now and am now wanting to put myself out there, so if you're reading this, I hope you enjoy it.
The Dryads are Calling
They say the forest by Phoenix River sings. Perhaps it is just the wind howling through the leaves, or a particular birdsong. But Percy Fisher knows better; he knows what lies in those woods, and he knows that the forest sings of his demise.
By Leigh Hooperabout 15 hours ago in Fiction
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