I’ve spent four minutes writing
the things I cannot say.
I’ve spent four miles running,
my torso bent one-way.
I’ve spent two hours packing
to go a place I hate.
I’ve spent two hours pacing,
contemplating fate.
I’ve written all I aim to;
I’ve run my body out.
I’ve filled up my suitcase;
I’ve walked away my doubt.
And yet in all this doing,
I have not found my being.
(And yet, in all this writing,
I have not found my meaning.)
(Source: poetcetera)
(via tovaritching)





