(no subject)
Like a five year old child gazing up to the sky dreaming of flying miles above, I've always wished that i could be a writer; to be able to turn emotion into words and ideas into sentences. My mind is a squealing tea-pot boiling over with never ending feelings and rhymes, but when pen touches paper and thought becomes word, the tea goes bad: leaving a bitter film in the mouth. On the floor lays a coat of crumpled papers: failed attempts at freeing my mind. Frustration haunts this page as my mind envisions beauty but my eyes see only filth. I wish I held the power to hold the reader's heart, to be a construction worker of suspense riding the elevator higher until we reach the top floor. There, a momentary pause is reached, the climax of our story, for just as it climbed up, the elevator rides us down to the floor where we began. Back to the paper strewn room, and back to our reality. The reality that preaches to us in tongues and uncrackable codes. A life where want is wrong and selflessness is praised. A life where thought can't bridge to paper and idea can't bridge to word. A life that is owned by one person:
Me.
Me.