Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia - E.L. Doctorow

Friday, June 4, 2010


I wrote this piece a while ago. I don't really think it falls under any sort of category of poem or story. It was meant to be a story, but it turned out the way it did--short and sweet. It shows how I have felt over the last couple of years. Their has been so many changes in my life and I'm always having to make decisions, decisions that could have massive consequence. Though I'm happy with all the decisions I have made so far, but with a lot of things I'm still standing on that precipice.

I stand at the precipice. Which way do I go?

My breathing is heavy and regard. Heart in my throat.

I have been running. I don’t know what from or what too, but I have been running.

I’m scared of going forward, but I can’t go back.

Forward promises crystal blue skies and calm seas. However, when I look down all I see are the crashing waves rolling up the rocky cliff, getting closer and closer, pressing me to make a decision.

I want to jump, but I need someone to catch me.

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