Amateur writer. On the path of the phrase that says "practice makes perfect." Avid consumer of books that make me think, make me feel.

People look up to people,

But when I raise my eyes up,

All I see is white--A blank.

Is it true that you can find

Admiration outside of

Your imagination? (How weird!)

They say that people are great,

That they do things that can change

Fate. Yet, every time that I

Look up, all I see is white.

Some say white is a symbol

Of hope, of the pure, of what

Was once untold. But in my eyes,

White is just a cleaner version

Of a black hole. It won't let go

Of me. Why can't my ceiling be like

The sky? Why does its pureness have to

Blind my eyes? Why can it not,

At sunset, display a raging fire?

It would make me less crazy,

And perhaps, less of a crier.

Is it my destiny to

Look up to my ceiling?

I wish it was more of an

Achiever, a worker, a dreamer.

I'm doomed, and in a lost fate

I am a firm believer.

© 2017 H Bakerley