[Roxas is not creative, to say the least. His pursuits have always been athletic or just plain survival, and he never really got into the artsy stuff. But he wants to try, because, well... maybe it will help. So he went to the library and read a bunch of poems, but he's not sure it really helped.]
This is my first time trying to write a poem or anything like that... So, uh, I'm sorry.
[Because he's convinced, and he's probably right, that what is written on the page is garbage.]
A drum, so soft you barely hear it, it's so easy to tune out every day. Waves on the shore, the flap of wings. Just a soft pounding, constant.
Footsteps, rainfall, a clock ticking. A loud noise, speed up. Relaxing afternoon, slow down. Rhythmic and steady, never-ending.
So easy to take for granted, always there in your ears but you never really hear it. It's there if you listen, ever present.
Sometimes it grows warmer or colder, Or it tries to beat out of my chest. That's how I know I'm alive. I hope my heart is really mine.
[And now he's just gonna avoid eye-contact because this all makes him feel oddly vulnerable??]
no subject
This is my first time trying to write a poem or anything like that... So, uh, I'm sorry.
[Because he's convinced, and he's probably right, that what is written on the page is garbage.]
A drum, so soft you barely hear it,
it's so easy to tune out every day.
Waves on the shore, the flap of wings.
Just a soft pounding, constant.
Footsteps, rainfall, a clock ticking.
A loud noise, speed up.
Relaxing afternoon, slow down.
Rhythmic and steady, never-ending.
So easy to take for granted,
always there in your ears
but you never really hear it.
It's there if you listen, ever present.
Sometimes it grows warmer or colder,
Or it tries to beat out of my chest.
That's how I know I'm alive.
I hope my heart is really mine.
[And now he's just gonna avoid eye-contact because this all makes him feel oddly vulnerable??]