(no subject)
It is that fervent, gnawing yearning for expression and life. You draw in heaving breaths seeped in dreams of sweet, gushing rainwater--torrents and eddies that swirl in curlicues around your sneakers. But you are left barren, brittly dry, withered, crippled, as the water of the world drenches everything. Your crumbling emptiness resigns itself to letting the drops seep in through your pores, as you can produce none from within.
It is the yearning of words, gorgeous in their raw simplicity; the ache of music. That which feels more you and whole and alive than you are. Your bones and soul ache with the songs your heart yearns to write but doesn't know how. Oh, to have it flow from your soul, but you're parched and cannot even begin.
Your blood runs bitter with frustration at the few marred and trivial notes you squeeze from the caked rust.
see, this is what Spanish poetry and John Lennon do to me... time for class
It is the yearning of words, gorgeous in their raw simplicity; the ache of music. That which feels more you and whole and alive than you are. Your bones and soul ache with the songs your heart yearns to write but doesn't know how. Oh, to have it flow from your soul, but you're parched and cannot even begin.
Your blood runs bitter with frustration at the few marred and trivial notes you squeeze from the caked rust.
see, this is what Spanish poetry and John Lennon do to me... time for class