Untitled Essay.
28.9.11
"I believe that people are the most beautiful when they cry. Ironic, isn't it? Completely red in the face with lungs gasping for oxygen. Eyes burning and lack of body control.
A face drowning underneath saline; much like being just belong the water in a pool.
The elegance is truly something else. A human in a broken down state, a human that could be considered at his weakest, but it happens to not be the case.
The raw emotion of the mental state is released to the public and sings the dying words of the heart. It would being a whole new enlightened meaning to, 'crying your heart out'.
Crying, though considered childish, is the strongest way a human can react. To let one's guard down and accept the cry for help shows acceptance and realization.
Though life's burdens became much, the human knows his breaking point. It is not conventional beauty, but inner strength."
Showing posts with label untitled essay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label untitled essay. Show all posts
Friday, October 28, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
stuck in her daydream.
23.9.11
Untitled essay.
"I promised I'd write. I can barely find the words to convey what I truly mean in print and vocalization. The placement of adjectives brutally emphasized my nouns to morbidity when they used to express what my heart sang out.
My heart would call and I would gladly follow. An orchestration in the dark, blatantly put.
But how does one continue to write when a muse turns sour? Does one turn to fiction? Does one bathe the audience in falsehood? It seems to be the case. Let me, as a writer, cover up the craters, the war, you (the muse) created underneath hills and hills of the English tongue.
When the flames erupt, the writer is to find the words in the ash and ease the suffering. Ink on page is his blood. Without his writing, he is nothing but a common sufferer -- lethargic and ignorant.
The common sufferer reads, but does not see. He finds no meaning and no beauty in the hidden. Simple minded, he spreads his ignorance like the Black Death. Minds -- they listen and rot.
They will never know what it means to be literary awakened.
As a writer, he seeks to cure and alleviate.
A writer found the words in his own blood and finds his purpose without the muse.
That is his message."
Untitled essay.
"I promised I'd write. I can barely find the words to convey what I truly mean in print and vocalization. The placement of adjectives brutally emphasized my nouns to morbidity when they used to express what my heart sang out.
My heart would call and I would gladly follow. An orchestration in the dark, blatantly put.
But how does one continue to write when a muse turns sour? Does one turn to fiction? Does one bathe the audience in falsehood? It seems to be the case. Let me, as a writer, cover up the craters, the war, you (the muse) created underneath hills and hills of the English tongue.
When the flames erupt, the writer is to find the words in the ash and ease the suffering. Ink on page is his blood. Without his writing, he is nothing but a common sufferer -- lethargic and ignorant.
The common sufferer reads, but does not see. He finds no meaning and no beauty in the hidden. Simple minded, he spreads his ignorance like the Black Death. Minds -- they listen and rot.
They will never know what it means to be literary awakened.
As a writer, he seeks to cure and alleviate.
A writer found the words in his own blood and finds his purpose without the muse.
That is his message."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)