Is unknown.
I stole this. Shameless, uninspired, I rip these words from the lips of those I knew. Thanks Mr. Pogge, I'm glad to see you happy, and I'm positive that you'll let me steal what you call your own.
i've truly found the love of my life. sometimes i hate even saying that last part because of the stale way it rolls off of the tongue. how many journal entries are there making similar claims only to be followed up by tales of heartache shortly after? the word love itself has been raped and tainted, drained of all of it's meaning for centuries. we can thank shakespeare for that one. the man was the number one conglomerate in the selling out of love. from there and all of the writers that followed suit for the next five hundred years, i don't even know what's left to say that hasn't already been said in the worst possible ways a hundred times over. the entire concept has been reduced to a cheap limmerick.
"sinklikeanchors"- Its really quite good, I couldn't believe it was the chain-smoking, toyota driving leprechan I know. Nice.
Oh love, but I am not that bitter. Or perhaps I am, I find myself thinking similar thoughts, idioms, sayings. I am uninspired enough that I cannot find my own lines. I'll take them, rip them to pieces. Slowly draw the knife of my tongue across the throat as the sentiment lies kicking screaming on the hardwood floors. I am the butcherer. I am the buyer of cards of lines that I could never find in my own volition. I will hide secret the thoughts I have the audacity to label my own. I could never be this eloquent, this. this. this... well if prose was in an adjective form I would use it.
typing to kill the time. typing to kill the anger, to inspire myself to use richer vocabulary, to bring time to a close. I will draw this paragraph, this shameless murder of another man's beauty to a close.
Here here! I raise the glass to the man who swore he'd never love again! I raise a glass to the man that threw the rocks at former love's windows! I call a toast to my brother. The one with words like cotton. I call it to you, oh writers of wit, oh pen of fury, oh tongue of love.
Because I could never sound so pretty.
i've truly found the love of my life. sometimes i hate even saying that last part because of the stale way it rolls off of the tongue. how many journal entries are there making similar claims only to be followed up by tales of heartache shortly after? the word love itself has been raped and tainted, drained of all of it's meaning for centuries. we can thank shakespeare for that one. the man was the number one conglomerate in the selling out of love. from there and all of the writers that followed suit for the next five hundred years, i don't even know what's left to say that hasn't already been said in the worst possible ways a hundred times over. the entire concept has been reduced to a cheap limmerick.
"sinklikeanchors"- Its really quite good, I couldn't believe it was the chain-smoking, toyota driving leprechan I know. Nice.
Oh love, but I am not that bitter. Or perhaps I am, I find myself thinking similar thoughts, idioms, sayings. I am uninspired enough that I cannot find my own lines. I'll take them, rip them to pieces. Slowly draw the knife of my tongue across the throat as the sentiment lies kicking screaming on the hardwood floors. I am the butcherer. I am the buyer of cards of lines that I could never find in my own volition. I will hide secret the thoughts I have the audacity to label my own. I could never be this eloquent, this. this. this... well if prose was in an adjective form I would use it.
typing to kill the time. typing to kill the anger, to inspire myself to use richer vocabulary, to bring time to a close. I will draw this paragraph, this shameless murder of another man's beauty to a close.
Here here! I raise the glass to the man who swore he'd never love again! I raise a glass to the man that threw the rocks at former love's windows! I call a toast to my brother. The one with words like cotton. I call it to you, oh writers of wit, oh pen of fury, oh tongue of love.
Because I could never sound so pretty.