omnis-atrumWhisper

American

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The love that was lostDon’t think I’m trying to make or break you spirit / Just giving you a thought from my soul, if you would only hear it, / I can’t fully express (or repress) exactly what it is I think

121

11.1k

The loss that was foundnot all who cry out are in pain / not all who are lost long to be saved again, / not all that are alone feel betrayed

376

7.5k

The lessons that were learnedi swear tis dreadful my dear / to face ones greatest fear / to have nought and none to hold near

6.1k

Great inspiration fron deadly sin...Many artists create for approval, to translate the beauty they find in the world so that others can feel what they feel (which is second hand at best), or to try to better understand the world that they are in and communicate their findings with the rest of the world. I would stand here today and say that is all meaningless to me. If one cannot find their own truths, then they do not deserve the truths that they find. Everyone can see 'the beauty of the world' that surrounds them, and far too many people try to turn their senses into tangible words on a page. What difference does it make, better yet, what difference should it make to a person if others view the world in the same light that they do? It is for this purpose that I do not view the world in any light. When I create I view the world without light. Feeling my way through the darkness trying to find something that I can hold on to. I am a horrible and pitiful creature when I search for ideas, but when I can wrap my hands around these ideas with no light shed from an outside source there is no greater sense of accomplishment. I write not about the beauty of the world, not about fantastic imageries that could be on an inspirational poster, nothing of the heavens and angels, because when I write my demons take over. Every doubt that sits in the back of my mind unanswered. Every amount of corruption that I have seen in the world. Every hope that has been shot down to crash as a fallen spaceship. Every desire that I will never see fulfilled. These are the things that give me the passion and inspiration to create. Perhaps it is for the balance of the world that I write with such things in mind. As I watch so many writers fail to create what it is that they pictured in their creative vision simply because their minds are cluttered with preconceived notions of love, of good, and of this great being that will provide them with their every desire (deliverable on death, as I have been told); I know that most will surely continue to fail. The world does not have a perfect clockwork structure that they would have everyone else see. I hope that in controlling my demons I will be able to create something that is more authentic. More pure. / Art is struggle. / Creations are covered with our sacrifices.

4.3k

Silent AlterationsA lachrymose ebullition, / unable to be muffled by its producer, / is postulated idiosyncratic,

130

3.9k

TemperanceWith our passion all spent they would have us repent our consent / with blind zealotry they refuse to relent opposing our mergence / so when curing prurience leave one percent of passion unspent.

3.1k

Our own languageTo be imbued with the conviction that empathic listening is a panacea, / by the surreptitious, murmurous harbinger and his mellifluous words, / provoked brooding that my comprehension of his susurrous eloquence was a mondegreen,

Thoughts weighing heavy...Thoughts escape through cracks and crevices of the swelling gray matter. Each breath forcefully exhaled through thinly parted lips pushes the unfinished coliseum constructed of heavy stones, weighted with unsure purpose, out into the previously unoccupied space before me. Each exhalation creates small beings composed of struggle that march mechanically into the arena. Ready to throw their lives on the line to fight for recognition. As these thoughts battle one another, one falls after the next. Once the battles between these thoughts has finished, and the coliseum is filled with dreams and ideas that will never find themselves fully recognized, only one stands victorious. Though battered and broken from the ****** battles it has fought, selflessness has conquered any that would seek to oppose it. It inhales the dire wounds caused to the others, and they stand before the crumpled mass that saved everything they fought so hard to achieve through personal sacrifice. Not knowing the events that occurred, they cannibalized selflessness to sate their primitive greed. Now a small portion of him exists within every ideal that escapes through pursed lips from the fields of grey matter where they were conceived. Through this process the idea of love was given life, and it will forever seek that selflessness that gave birth to it.

2.3k

This side upHe keeps the contents of his life in boxes. The clear Rubbermaid totes with the locking lids that keep the contents from spilling out across the floor when they are least needed. The same containers that keep everything within protected against assailing liquid falling from above. Most of his possessions have long since been discarded, but there is an odd assortment of memories that are kept safe. / A model rocket that his grandfather, long since passed, used to take him to open fields to launch towards the heavens. It never quite reached, but in his mind he was chasing down the parachute of a spaceship returning from a long voyage. / Birthday cards received when it was still exciting to count the years. When the cards still had happy monsters devouring birthday cake and the short handwritten messages read "We are so proud of the person you are becoming".

1.8k

You must knowYou are beautiful. / The words whispered without doubt. / Each syllable slipping through smoothly,

1.7k