what is writing but a bunch of words that hope for shape to give your life meaning words that say what you feel words that say what you feel you may never be able to speak it is scraping the bare carcass of the soul to remove its organs its stench its every utterance to place it all on paper and say see that’s me the bloody mangled mess of an existence scratching its way to the surface so that you might find a place among the masses this pen gives me hope it is beauty in everything that can seem so ugly but it serves me well or do I serve it I only know that I must write I do it because it is my only hope fear means nothing when you can wield the pen like a sword as big as the sun giving you immortality in a way that only words can stamping your you on this wretched rock for all to see and future others to reminisce it takes me places that I would never dare visit less I were a coward or a man whichever comes first cant you taste it is like the lemon to the honey the honey to the suckle and the suckle to the bee the bee knows what it is that I speak of for it knows its place it knows where to find joy it knows who its master is it lives inside of a flower the flower is life and death to the bee yet always beautiful to you and i.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Freestyle 1
12.22.2000
what is writing but a bunch of words that hope for shape to give your life meaning words that say what you feel words that say what you feel you may never be able to speak it is scraping the bare carcass of the soul to remove its organs its stench its every utterance to place it all on paper and say see that’s me the bloody mangled mess of an existence scratching its way to the surface so that you might find a place among the masses this pen gives me hope it is beauty in everything that can seem so ugly but it serves me well or do I serve it I only know that I must write I do it because it is my only hope fear means nothing when you can wield the pen like a sword as big as the sun giving you immortality in a way that only words can stamping your you on this wretched rock for all to see and future others to reminisce it takes me places that I would never dare visit less I were a coward or a man whichever comes first cant you taste it is like the lemon to the honey the honey to the suckle and the suckle to the bee the bee knows what it is that I speak of for it knows its place it knows where to find joy it knows who its master is it lives inside of a flower the flower is life and death to the bee yet always beautiful to you and i.
what is writing but a bunch of words that hope for shape to give your life meaning words that say what you feel words that say what you feel you may never be able to speak it is scraping the bare carcass of the soul to remove its organs its stench its every utterance to place it all on paper and say see that’s me the bloody mangled mess of an existence scratching its way to the surface so that you might find a place among the masses this pen gives me hope it is beauty in everything that can seem so ugly but it serves me well or do I serve it I only know that I must write I do it because it is my only hope fear means nothing when you can wield the pen like a sword as big as the sun giving you immortality in a way that only words can stamping your you on this wretched rock for all to see and future others to reminisce it takes me places that I would never dare visit less I were a coward or a man whichever comes first cant you taste it is like the lemon to the honey the honey to the suckle and the suckle to the bee the bee knows what it is that I speak of for it knows its place it knows where to find joy it knows who its master is it lives inside of a flower the flower is life and death to the bee yet always beautiful to you and i.
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