It's a dismal ship lying on the brink of insanity.
It's a thin line of courage and grace blended with hints of remorse.
It's a blue sky with one cloud in sight, yet it still might rain.
There is a word for this, but not a word in the Oxford Dictionary.
It's the white hot tears that stain cheeks with roses.
It's the cold that makes music as the door flutters open.
It's the mild behavior that gains admiration at first light.
There is a word for this, but not a word that floats in the air.
So what is there to do if the actuality of this word is unknown? There is only one logical action: To go on existing. Thousands of years have gone by and the English speaking brothers and sisters have not spit so much as a syllable in this idea's direction.
Without it, there have been substitute whispers that fill the void, and characters that imitate the feeling flooding minds with false emotion.
It was a soliloquy elegantly scripted on the King's finest scroll.
It was a soliloquy printed on clean copy paper.
It was a monologue crudely written down on the blank back of an old homework assignment.
So where has this monologue been hiding all these years? The answer: Tucked away between mattresses and box springs. Terror develops when small notes are brought into the open and only the bravest kin dare to try.
There's no need to look further, because to understand my meaning, there is no need to dress it up with fancy words; without reason to add in useless words, communication becomes more effective.
It used to be a monologue crudely written down on the blank back of an old homework assignment.
It used to be a long speech on half a ripped notebook paper.
It used to be a lot of words in the shredder.
There is a word for this. It's on the tip of my tongue.