"Once this fire of love used to keep me warm... Now it's dying embers set ablaze everything they touch.. Stay away, Violet. Or they will burn you too..."
"If that's true, Summer, then let me be embraced by the flames..."
Scribbles that never become a story. I write such things as a means of self-help now.
I name my characters on things close to me. Violet is my favourite colour. Summer is my last rhyme.
These are wounds
piled on my desk.
They bleed for
attention and ink.
These are nameless,
kept away from view.
of my quill.
Urchins in rags,
unkept and unfinished.
They haunt my dwelling,
as beggars do.
They are dismembered,
without proper structure.
void of identity.
Give them names,
would equate their freedom.
and they shall see the sun.
and leave them,
as they are.
Ideas swirl in my mind
That pick up scattered thoughts and words
and grow into tornadoes
that whirl across my mind.
They distract from life
From what's real
and what matters.
But when I sit down to write
They all flee in terror
And my pen hovers above the page
filled only with scribbled out phrases
and my own insecurities.
I always have these stories and ideas in my mind, but when I go to write them down, the words to do so evade me and it comes out as sloppy, half-formed, and not anywhere near as good as they were in my head.
Alas. Absolutely NOTHING is inspiring.
Firs hang their boughs in silence as in pale
Excuse it looks like some big snowman thence
Erm, toppled by whom, eh? lies headless hence
Upon the "island's" rim cuz oh, t'avail
Last weekend some tried to move snow sans bail,
As la, his forklift needed to fr'intents
Be wrestled from captiv'ty, as for sense
The icy pile swore it would NOT move, hale.
Now as a fragile touch of pink'd bestir
Itself to trick out blank racks 'cross the view,
Likeas a chalkboard blushing faintly fer
Effect, what drives me to complain? Naught woo.
Nor have I watched aught movies. What, as twere,
Culls this dull sense that nary joys now cue?
You're allowed to take out the trash, but I want to keep this particular garbage, hahaha.
is like compassion .
the high king
of hiking ...........
this is everlasting
even so I seem to be crashin'
I’m out the hell hole but listen
I still hear the bell toll
**** sings wisdom
rippin' through fools nihilism
like that Rick and Mort to
Ȃͣͪͥ̇̀̐ľ̒ͮͬ͑ͦ̌l̏̎͋̄̃̓ ̈̔͒ͧ̾t͗̊͌́͒h̓̅̔ͮ͌i͂̾͌s͊͆̾͒̅ ̆́̏͗s̔̋͐ͬ̄ͣhỉ̍̈́tͬͧ̓̀ͥ ̾͆̿̈m̀́̊͐ͩ̒e͛aͧ͋ͦͮͪͨń̂ͤͥͪ͂́s̉̄̐̏̃ͤ̚ ͧ̋͐̈̔̏͋sͧͫomͦ̄͌̃ͯeͯ̾̈́͂th̑ͧing͑.̔͐͑̚
Society structures rigid rules
based in ethical clues
through these two teeth, 2 hands, 1 pen;
reality peaks through as the morning does through the dew.
With the pouring of this cup the sacred drain true
you can question everything
but still the g̵̖̞͇͓͕̔͗̈́̽̌̈́o͓̬͉͕̟͐ͯͩ̃͢d̳͈̰̣͔̉̍ͦͦͥ͒ḥ͙͈̤̙̔̀̓͂ͮͧ̾ë͚̜̯͚́ͬͭ̇͒͗́å̖̜͇ͦͤ̊ḏ̌ͮͣͥ̓͒ͨ́ speaks you.
Scriabin, born in Russia in 1872, was a gifted pianist whom at a young age was drawn to philosophical and spiritual avenues. Early on he was considered a “mystic”— a man with the desire to find harmonic correspondence with the ethereal worlds. In the years that led up to the social, cultural, and political explosion that was the Russian Revolution of 1917, the brilliance of Scriabin pushed the rich Russian musical tradition forward. Held by the pillars of Tchaikovsky and Stravinsky, he began his exploration in his ambitious first symphony by writing every single note based on the sensation of color, light and ‘time’ that was found in the blood and bones of our common human anatomy. He believed in the completion of Mystic Conquest of the 20th century the human enzyme; that the body itself was a complete harmonic system that responded to specific tones and specific colors in a very organized and intelligent way.
When words sprout limbs
And grow as trees in the summertime
Steadily until they bare their fruit
Then my thoughts will be hanging within reach
Would you pluck them as you'd pluck some fruit?
And take a tiny bite of me
Or at least of my thoughts?
Would you, wouldn't you?
Would you, wouldn't you?
This might be a duplicate... I'll look into it later.