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The oceans surround me
As I drown in this sea known as life
Friends of old and new talk all about me;
I smile and nod to all the same.
Not laughing, nor cheering as I used to.
Becoming mute and silent.
What has happened?
What is this curse I have endured?
No speech, emotions, nor life!
Have I become a mummy walking about without the bandages?!
I feel suffocated and overwhelmed.
Drowning in salt water, filling my lungs; making my hair stream down with trickles of rain drops then submersion.
I have lost myself somewhere.. In this ****** sea.
My favorite spot in a world. When you approach the bushel of trees and twigs, it simply seems as a bunch of cluttered weeds and plants. As you continue to go upward through the mud, rocks, and jaggers prickling possibly ripping at any bare skin exposed. You enter a large dirt mound, with a nature made bench rock for you to sit over. A few stories above the Monongahela river it shows the most beautiful view while being shrouded by vines and trees all around it. The space where you have is not very big at all. That's what makes it so special, it's a small hidden place on top a hill in a hidden pass looking over as a guardian to the world with trees, the river, the river bank of sand and trees over shadowing the water. During the Winter it will show you the trees asleep with a blanket of snow tucking the trees away, during the Spring it shows a beautiful surge of life throughout the massive hillside as far as the eye can stretch, Summer makes the hills be covered top to bottom with the florescent forest that cover any form of hill they are on, in the Fall it is a color game of red, yellow, orange and brown. Decorating up and down the hillside, falling into the river, mixing together colors only some of the best artist in the world could ever hope to paint. During the Summer the shores hymn with life, and cheerful people casting lines to the river, firing lighting their path. From this spot the world seems so perfect. It is also a fantastic reminder that a few drops from the end could turn everything off. Lights out forever, the ledge shows you the life you could have fruitful and beautiful; forever changing. While you are still on the edge from nothing.
This is a descriptive essay I wrote for my English class in college! I figured I'd share. I hope you all enjoy! :D
The only difference between a serial killer and an artist is the ability to control insanity.
I want to be a lover, not a luster.
I want to feel the love of one once more.
Not the lustful temporary of passion.
True loves passion burns forever.
Too much our society is bent on, "always forevers" coming to them.
They must explore the world if they want a lover, not a luster.
I can feel my mind boiling.
Overcoming with thoughts of my past loved ones.
Trying so hard for everyone.
And forgetting the most essential self being.
The raw blisters of an emotional carcass rot as an open wound.
Again and again, done for others as you wish was done unto you.
The only one you ever had that put you before everyone else.
You stabbed, and threw them away.
Even as they are so close. They're far away; not to be as one anymore.
The extension of the small greatness in fact made you all the greatness.
The greatest challenge of a man is deciding.
Live within a world he has made for himself, or live within a world others have created for him.
In a controlled society do we ever truly live, or are we simply slaves to another madman's mind.
Is this a ******* joke, or is this reality.
The harsh reality of we are all just microorganisms in this ****** up universe of an insignificant
planet, but we were given the curse of thought, intelligence.
Is it Man's greatest blessing?
Or shall it be our greater curse we've ever manifested.
The Winters roar.
The Summers simmer.
The Spring sings.
The Fall is an omen of what is to come.
Every season something different happens.
Something changes.
Change is sporadic year around.
Some good.
Some bad.
But change does one essential thing; Cause of a change.
Some permanent- some not.
Alas, change is needed or we shall stop moving.
What is change?
Is it the inertia movement of science?
Or is it simply the currency at which we observe our physical lives.

— The End —