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?
Tag: my writing
Used to know some guy that worked 6 to 3. Free only in mind so he changed it to 9 to 5 to see. What a guy, isn’t he? Impressive? Works so hard yet behind the curtains is so damn depressive. Frozen food, caught remotely in control questioning his purpose. Searching for another day because
I care not in being like a burning star. The sun still hangs amongst the others in the cold, dark void of space. See me as the moon, where I am visible in my darkness. I’m clearly seen to the world in the embrace to that I shall not cover. I am where men try
The water bounces off my skin. I look on as each drop hits and spreads apart. I see people running away and screaming because of the downpour. I don’t mind the water. I look on and wonder what exactly is going on around me. I feel a sense of longing I haven’t felt for some
Spending hours in front of a screen designing your character, it has to be perfect. We look and take the best pictures, it has to be perfect. We then establish a persona to identify who we are to the digital world. But what is our avatar to the real world? I’ve had people tell me,
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
As a writer, the worlds I’ve created have become so developed that I now look on. The characters have their own stories, own ideas, they have far exceeded my imagination. Though I did, in fact, create it all, I’ve become an onlooker. I feel as if every author is aware of this. Your characters may
Kill me not with soft words from such lips. Having my soul engulfed by invigorating touch that reaches the long, forgotten, beating heart. Keep me buried if I am but a passing wind in a season of one’s choosing. I have yielded to such a cause that men seem to fall victim to. Why has
Bury me in a world of empty silence and it shall echo a resounding peace. Never wavering joy of unmatched darkness. Pulling depth to see an endless abyss caught by our gaze. Such space and time in infinite hold. The ever awaiting welcome, o death
Where do we go from here? Your mind remains restless upon years of emotions and thoughts you believe you will not escape from. Time seems to be at a standstill and you remain glued to the notion that it will not get better. Jump 2 days into the future, a year, a decade, now what?