this makes no sense. hell. I don't make any sense.
I t'nac eveileb I koot eht emit ot od siht. "siht si eht yaw eht dlrow sdne, siht si eht yaw eht dlrow sdne, siht si eht yaw eht dlrow sdne, ton htiw a gnab, tub htiw a repmihw."
I love that poem, just because it's amazingly true. If the world would end today, there would be no big bang, but only the sound of lost souls crying and the rest dying, tired of lying, escaping to the beyond of the never ending universe.
yeah.
I feel like writing lately. Writing poetry again. I am just out of ideas. I could write about love, my love for Daniel, my new-found love for my family, my love for life, but I have written about those things. I have no sorrow to burn through the ways of words, but I do have ENERGY to burn.
Burn what?
With an empty pit there can be no flames, and without the heat of burning emotions, the power to write has been lost.
Am I too happy?
No, you can never be too happy. Happiness, no matter how controversial, is the good food for the soul. Fuel. Feul to burn.
I have burned this happiness though. Time and time again. I have burned other people's woes and sorrows, but coming from me, it is no justice.
Is the world changing?
I guess so, but isn't it always? In a perpetual motion, it is impossible for things to remain in the state of which they were found.
Am I changing?
Little by little, day by day, until all my thoughts of personal change have been collected into a huge, steaming lump, waiting to be either sorted or tossed.
I have tossed too many a thought.
And there is my dilema. Thought, after thought, after thought being tossed instead of inscribed. Inscribed into the gray matter of this center of being which I call my mind. Inscribed into words, words to touch hearts, and words to feed souls. Words to cast the shadow on days passed, and words to shine light on the beaten path that lays under my feet.
For words of the heart, are songs of the soul, and if words are tossed, their meaning will never be told.
Simple deduction of thought processes, lead to the words of songs, songs to be told through simple words inscribed, and therefore, their meaning to be expressed through the soft hearts of men who walk their beaten paths, and scratch their heads in wonderment, as the fork in the road approaches and they take head to the songs, whitsling their advice through the broken boughs of forgotten trees.
So, if the thoughts created within our elevated state of mind are tossed and left to die, the fuel which we need to burn is gone, and no light will shine on the paths of men, and misled footsteps will meet with sure demise, all because of the words, that someone, did not speak.
I love that poem, just because it's amazingly true. If the world would end today, there would be no big bang, but only the sound of lost souls crying and the rest dying, tired of lying, escaping to the beyond of the never ending universe.
yeah.
I feel like writing lately. Writing poetry again. I am just out of ideas. I could write about love, my love for Daniel, my new-found love for my family, my love for life, but I have written about those things. I have no sorrow to burn through the ways of words, but I do have ENERGY to burn.
Burn what?
With an empty pit there can be no flames, and without the heat of burning emotions, the power to write has been lost.
Am I too happy?
No, you can never be too happy. Happiness, no matter how controversial, is the good food for the soul. Fuel. Feul to burn.
I have burned this happiness though. Time and time again. I have burned other people's woes and sorrows, but coming from me, it is no justice.
Is the world changing?
I guess so, but isn't it always? In a perpetual motion, it is impossible for things to remain in the state of which they were found.
Am I changing?
Little by little, day by day, until all my thoughts of personal change have been collected into a huge, steaming lump, waiting to be either sorted or tossed.
I have tossed too many a thought.
And there is my dilema. Thought, after thought, after thought being tossed instead of inscribed. Inscribed into the gray matter of this center of being which I call my mind. Inscribed into words, words to touch hearts, and words to feed souls. Words to cast the shadow on days passed, and words to shine light on the beaten path that lays under my feet.
For words of the heart, are songs of the soul, and if words are tossed, their meaning will never be told.
Simple deduction of thought processes, lead to the words of songs, songs to be told through simple words inscribed, and therefore, their meaning to be expressed through the soft hearts of men who walk their beaten paths, and scratch their heads in wonderment, as the fork in the road approaches and they take head to the songs, whitsling their advice through the broken boughs of forgotten trees.
So, if the thoughts created within our elevated state of mind are tossed and left to die, the fuel which we need to burn is gone, and no light will shine on the paths of men, and misled footsteps will meet with sure demise, all because of the words, that someone, did not speak.