(no subject)
we all want to write out our angst and have it received as well as the greats had their ramblings taken and consumed and printed and spread out to the masses. we all aspire to whine with such decadent wordplay as to be remembered at least as the archetype of the cliche, often nameless but certainly known and revered.
we sit and look longingly out at the world, the mouthpiece of our generation so convinced that we have the right words, the correct words, the perfect words to describe this so called imperfect world and we are no doubt as wrong as we are right
it is the individual's image of perfection that is often flawed although skewed completely by selfish lust even in selfless acts and so we kill a bit of ourselves each day with each breath awaiting the winter of our coming years, adopting of course the same old metaphor
we sit and look longingly out at the world, the mouthpiece of our generation so convinced that we have the right words, the correct words, the perfect words to describe this so called imperfect world and we are no doubt as wrong as we are right
it is the individual's image of perfection that is often flawed although skewed completely by selfish lust even in selfless acts and so we kill a bit of ourselves each day with each breath awaiting the winter of our coming years, adopting of course the same old metaphor