A brief entry to something I am writing, short stories of the tales we hardly hear about, plague us, cause us uncertainty, what it means to be human: Wretched souls bearing waste to paradise. Caught in perilous ventures that are filled with their emotions. What ails these frail beings filled with blood and weak bones?
I have done it, I’ve committed, committed to what though? Growing my beard again. Now, before everyone jumps to their opinion, what exactly does this mean? Let me start by saying that my job requires you to be clean-shaven or already have a full beard. How can you magically grow a 1/4 inch full beard
What does it take to fully motivate you? Are the words spoken in a play, movie, poem, book, and etc, really what drives men/ women to get up and roar with the motivation? I’ve longed to see the reality of when people are quick to say actions speak louder than words. I find that there
Let’s just stretch these old fingers here and crack some bones. *insert cracking noises* Another day, another night awake. I am amazed my body hasn’t completely shut down with all the abuse I’ve put it through in all of the years. Here I am, back at it again, about to be 3 am, eastern time
Cover me in swirls of light or darkness. Bury me in the mystery of possibilities. Faces emerge and breeds a new future of uncertainty. Shaped emotions and thoughts illustrating new reason. The present swirls.
What does it mean to write? Laying down on my bed contemplating what my next words will be? What would entice a reader to stick through these simple words that would impact them? How would I draw an audience to my work? The questions that plague a writer. I find myself attempting to find proper
Search within the mystery. Bursting colors illuminated by darkness. Flickers of rays met with caverns of emotions. Into the deep.
O sweet goddess, you have marked me eternity. Hear my words part and reach tickled ears. Such beauty stretching beyond time and space. Trouble breeding strength and growth into such amazement. Your eyes are the sunset to my dreams. Your voice the melody to my heart. Your touch the calming wing. Catch me in your
Speak to me of days gone and I shall incite memories of yesterday to flourish once more. Speaking measures are taken to reignite thoughts and emotions drawn from distances once forgotten. Lest weary thoughts be a prison. Centuries drawn by passing. The past breeds change of the present.
Echoing thoughts raging from whispering silence swelling within. Nights of darkness met by flickering light. Vision disrupt by blurry noises. The paradox of the senses mixed as life finds meaning touched by empty spirits. Vibrating emotions catching the scent of the agent of nothingness. Tales carry home the tolls of finding life in an empty