Aug 2021
Cold like a blue breeze,
This lonesome waits to feel,
To feel the warmth of your sun,
Whose light could brighten the dark,
Chasing it away from the farthest reaches inside,
And burn once again the flame that is lost,
A fire of creation to birth wonders
This lonesome waits to feel,
To feel the warmth of your sun,
Whose light could brighten the dark,
Chasing it away from the farthest reaches inside,
And burn once again the flame that is lost,
A fire of creation to birth wonders
I've lost the ability, or may be the reason to create
The lack of imagination I observe in myself is disturbing, and the funny thing is I'm living a happy life which doesn't excite me as much as misery used to. Ideas come and go, but nothing ever grows into something more that I can put to paper in words or in drawings, almost feeling like I've become the desk on which other ideas can take place.
The lack of imagination I observe in myself is disturbing, and the funny thing is I'm living a happy life which doesn't excite me as much as misery used to. Ideas come and go, but nothing ever grows into something more that I can put to paper in words or in drawings, almost feeling like I've become the desk on which other ideas can take place.
