Rain fell on the modest one-story house. It Sounded like an overture composed entirely of woodwind instruments. Flutes and piccolos expanded into the evening- the light, yet piercing sound echoed into the bowels of space. Cars lingered by, headlights illuminating the drops of water on the window and filling the room with invading light.
There sat the lone writer, filling his page with the stories of his youth. Quietly recounting the ghosts of war and burnt cigarettes to a piece of paper; his words tinged with penitence. An audible crackle of thunder had interrupted his brooding, unable to return to his work; a drink was in order. Standing with the glass in one hand, the other propping himself up on his kitchen counter, he pondered to himself. "Should I regale them with stories of heroism?" "Should I lie and beautify reality?" "Should I tell the truth?"
The truth is: All conflict is the caricature of other conflicts. Something conceived from the inner reflection of a thousand contemporaries. A reflection which manifests itself through the brutality of man. Everything the man was before is clear in utmost violence. The sounding of rifles and the crackle of consuming ******; all just an expression of self. There is no heroism: no sin or righteousness; no morality or error. It simply is.
He returns to his exposition, still working it over. "Should I tell them of who I was?" After a pause that felt like eons, he mutters, "No." "That wouldn't be honest."
Truthfully I find it hard to write a song, It takes a great deal of emotion just to write one.. I don't sound impressive singing under pressure to my friends And I find it hard to know who to trust so I let everyone in
But if theres something great to appreciate about me, its this.. When I love someone, I love **** hard, I cross limits and expectations for just a bit of their heart. And none of them would have to love me back Just smile.. Because when I love, I always go the extra mile
Well falling in love easily might not Actually be so great But theres something tragically beautiful about an unintentional heartbreak See me, I find it hard to just move on But when I let go, it's like the past 12 months just proved my heart wrong
I find it hard to be on my own But when I'm with too many people I wish I was alone.. I find it hard to not be soft & soppy I love myself i do, But that comes across as cocky Oh but the one thing you can appreciate about me.. Is that when I love you, You become a walking masterpiece And In my poems you remain beautiful
Doctors say Once you reach the age of maturity You will cease to grow; But how does that explain The heights that I reach, The expansion of my heart, Or the width of my smile When I'm wrapped in your arms? It doesn't.