Just a little something..
What can be produced from an 18 yr old insomiac, at 3:47am the day she has to get up in 4 hrs to go through the motions at yet another boring ass day as a Junior in High School? Lets' rock this bitch to find out!
Well, not exactly. I'm not sure when or how I wrote the piece I'm about to copy down on here. But, I did write the second one, last night. They both kinda suck.
"Insert catchy title here"
And now in the end, so where I begin. And thus, through this journey of life, we conquer all, only by conquering ourselves. By doing so, we open the door of intimacy.
If afraid, move forward, the strongest man never rests, nor does he boast with pride and achievement.
*****
Kinda strange..but..I wrote it, so I'm kinda forced into liking it. No? Thank God, because every person whom I show it too..says it's a little weird. Good thing I tell them I found it on the Internet, and the author is anonymous. Moving Forward, not backwards. Let's Roll.
March 30th, 2005
Sitting upon broke glass
Hoping on sunken dreams
Sifting through the thickness of the cold air.
Searching for any form of answer.
Seeing not a thing in the dark, cold night.
She travels on, ignoring the discouraging screams that she endures
Running, with feet hitting the mixture of rocks and leaves on the ground, her white dress flowing freely in the wind that she makes herself. Her long, black hair does the same.
She’s in a forest. The bare trees of fall shiver in the bleak coldness of the October night. The sky is covered with grey colds. The bright light of the moon casts a dim reflection over the night clouds.
She’s running, faster and faster, just so she can get to the nowhere she is going. She comes unto a stone in the middle of the forest. Only at first she thinks it’s a stone, but as she looks deeper and opens her eyes more to the rock that lays in front of her, she then quickly realizes, it’s not. She sees a name inscribed into it, yet she cannot depict what it has written. She climbs onto it.
Maybe the rock that the girl is on isn’t a rock. The forest she’s running through may not be at all. Maybe it’s a grave, and she is in a cemetery. She is running trying to find someone of her past, or trying to outrun them. She sees the name inscribed, but cannot depict it, like it has been erased from history. Maybe she needs to find this person, ion order to get her own life in order. She thinks that if she has this person, and actually know whom he or she is…she will better know herself.
Maybe she is me.
****
So they're a little mediocre. I don't know who I am kidding. I will never become a writer, not with this shit I'm producing. Even at age 18, which is not young to be starting a career, mind you. I can already see the end of mine. I write what I want to write, when I want to write it. So maybe, I shouldn't become a writer. Think about it, every one and their brother wants to become either a writer or a journalist. Is there room for me, and my mediocre shit that I call writings? I ask myself this constantly, yet I never find any suitable answers. I am but a lost sheep in a huge flock, I only see the coats of those around me, blocking the way home. The home which wili ultimately kill me. Home is where the butchering takes place. Killings of my friends. Bewildered am I? Yes. Scared? Very.Ready to do anything?...I'm not sure.
That is all.
Well, not exactly. I'm not sure when or how I wrote the piece I'm about to copy down on here. But, I did write the second one, last night. They both kinda suck.
"Insert catchy title here"
And now in the end, so where I begin. And thus, through this journey of life, we conquer all, only by conquering ourselves. By doing so, we open the door of intimacy.
If afraid, move forward, the strongest man never rests, nor does he boast with pride and achievement.
*****
Kinda strange..but..I wrote it, so I'm kinda forced into liking it. No? Thank God, because every person whom I show it too..says it's a little weird. Good thing I tell them I found it on the Internet, and the author is anonymous. Moving Forward, not backwards. Let's Roll.
March 30th, 2005
Sitting upon broke glass
Hoping on sunken dreams
Sifting through the thickness of the cold air.
Searching for any form of answer.
Seeing not a thing in the dark, cold night.
She travels on, ignoring the discouraging screams that she endures
Running, with feet hitting the mixture of rocks and leaves on the ground, her white dress flowing freely in the wind that she makes herself. Her long, black hair does the same.
She’s in a forest. The bare trees of fall shiver in the bleak coldness of the October night. The sky is covered with grey colds. The bright light of the moon casts a dim reflection over the night clouds.
She’s running, faster and faster, just so she can get to the nowhere she is going. She comes unto a stone in the middle of the forest. Only at first she thinks it’s a stone, but as she looks deeper and opens her eyes more to the rock that lays in front of her, she then quickly realizes, it’s not. She sees a name inscribed into it, yet she cannot depict what it has written. She climbs onto it.
Maybe the rock that the girl is on isn’t a rock. The forest she’s running through may not be at all. Maybe it’s a grave, and she is in a cemetery. She is running trying to find someone of her past, or trying to outrun them. She sees the name inscribed, but cannot depict it, like it has been erased from history. Maybe she needs to find this person, ion order to get her own life in order. She thinks that if she has this person, and actually know whom he or she is…she will better know herself.
Maybe she is me.
****
So they're a little mediocre. I don't know who I am kidding. I will never become a writer, not with this shit I'm producing. Even at age 18, which is not young to be starting a career, mind you. I can already see the end of mine. I write what I want to write, when I want to write it. So maybe, I shouldn't become a writer. Think about it, every one and their brother wants to become either a writer or a journalist. Is there room for me, and my mediocre shit that I call writings? I ask myself this constantly, yet I never find any suitable answers. I am but a lost sheep in a huge flock, I only see the coats of those around me, blocking the way home. The home which wili ultimately kill me. Home is where the butchering takes place. Killings of my friends. Bewildered am I? Yes. Scared? Very.Ready to do anything?...I'm not sure.
That is all.