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#truthsoaked
Stored up enough, but the energy now takes on its own purpose. If only I could draw; I'd create picture books on exactly what the ending looks like. Rough sketches left collecting for many months, before I ever once thought of putting color to them. The why, would be as mind trancing as tracing catch phrases into the many levels of dust accumulated. I'd write something so cliché, like, "With this oily finger I remove the collection of time." or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut through time." I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget where I left off, and distract myself again with writing. A small recluse emotion of mine objects viciously, but my attention to every words incentive laced meaning would leave the visual to again rest unchanged, not colored. So's the plight of one who likes to think himself an artist. There's that scandalous narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up, reminding you just how beautiful your words are, and how small in intellect those who don't get it are. Upon that shelf your pictures sit. I can only write as a narrator, because our "philosopher," "philanthropist of word volley, our genius of word play," is once again too caught up in the descriptors to finish the real picture. Not that this idea will stand the test of time, but I do believe more writers will commit suicide, selfishly of course. Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing so enigmatically that no one gets your "deep soul." While upon that shelf, within a fiber of your overrun writer's ego, there's a drawing begging to be finished, colored, maybe even shared. But just where does it reside? Did the alternate you place it in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found? If it's too early it just can't be worth it, can it? He'll have to learn to put down the pen, rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers, set up an easel, squeeze out some paint, and realize there are other mediums where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations. Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist, sweeping arm, no words, images are now your letter blocks to construct with. Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen. Stop being so foolish "Writer man," if your ego clings too sharply to words, simply remind it, "This could be another pen name." "...I love that idea, what would it be?" "Narcissist Ugly." "So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
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Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
Pariah16
"A Recluse Part of All of Us"
Stored up enough, but the energy now takes on its own purpose. If only I could draw; I'd create picture books on exactly what the ending looks like. Rough sketches left collecting for many months, before I ever once thought of putting color to them. The why, would be as mind trancing as tracing catch phrases into the many levels of dust accumulated. I'd write something so cliché, like, "With this oily finger I remove the collection of time." or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut through time." I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget where I left off, and distract myself again with writing. A small recluse emotion of mine objects viciously, but my attention to every words incentive laced meaning would leave the visual to again rest unchanged, not colored. So's the plight of one who likes to think himself an artist. There's that scandalous narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up, reminding you just how beautiful your words are, and how small in intellect those who don't get it are. Upon that shelf your pictures sit. I can only write as a narrator, because our "philosopher," "philanthropist of word volley, our genius of word play," is once again too caught up in the descriptors to finish the real picture. Not that this idea will stand the test of time, but I do believe more writers will commit suicide, selfishly of course. Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing so enigmatically that no one gets your "deep soul." While upon that shelf, within a fiber of your overrun writer's ego, there's a drawing begging to be finished, colored, maybe even shared. But just where does it reside? Did the alternate you place it in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found? If it's too early it just can't be worth it, can it? He'll have to learn to put down the pen, rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers, set up an easel, squeeze out some paint, and realize there are other mediums where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations. Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist, sweeping arm, no words, images are now your letter blocks to construct with. Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen. Stop being so foolish "Writer man," if your ego clings too sharply to words, simply remind it, "This could be another pen name." "...I love that idea, what would it be?" "Narcissist Ugly." "So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
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