writing for the sake of writing

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writing just to write
filling up the syllables
what am i doing???

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Sunset

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via GIPHY It is 18:32. The sinking sun diffuses into the sky like orange candy on a tongue. The sun is slow, yet swift—it gracefully descends like a ballerina when you look at it, but plunges down like a dart plane when you look away. It is as if the sun feels your gaze and wants you to marvel at its glory as it puts its nightcap on. But you should know, the sun only takes a stroll around the world to light up some distant skies. When you see the sun swallowed by the horizon, you should know that it is swiftly climbing up the stairs of another sky in a far-off land you have never seen. Another girl will perch at her balcony at 18:32 to watch what you have just watched. And it will go on. via GIPHY I totally did not write purple prose there  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Did the excessive imagery enhance your reading experience, or was it a hindrance? Please tell me so that I can improve!
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My Class

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  My class, V-E, is a zoo, With no concrete cells, But with ringing bells, And everyone shouting "shoo". Sometimes it's like a living hell, And in unison thirty voices yell, They run and shout like monkeys minus tails, You can't "shoo" them cuz you'll fail. Other times it's just like paradise, Seems like you won the roll of dice, They'll speak so polite and act so nice, You'll forget you've come to a pack of mice. Now that's my class, Sometimes they're good as angels, Sometimes bad as ghosts, Come here, and if you're lucky, I'll be your host. Photo by  Iqwan Alif  from  Pexels
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❝The Shadows Are Her Spotlight❞

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She dances to the songs Of birds and trees. Not caring where her feet fall, Not caring who watches her, Not caring if she's being mocked. She dances in the shadows As the darkness holds her captive; The shadows are her spotlight. Her footsteps fall  On scattered dust. When the little black birds Will fly back to their homes By broken window ledges and vents, The cool breeze will blow the dust Into nothingness, Where her rhythm will lie forgotten. The dying roots of the trees  And the little cooing fledglings Won't remember her tomorrow. I don't know how she does it But when she dances, She dances like there's no tomorrow, Like she's frozen in her own Happily ever after. Photo by  Anthony Shkraba  from  Pexels
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