Writing. I feel smart when I write. I feel intelligent, academic confidence has always been a stranger to me. Writing is expressive and powerful, the words you choose to write can shift one's perspective on a story or show them a hidden truth. Writing poems, writing stories, writing essays, I enjoy it all.
To write is to think on paper, for my thoughts to see their bubbling as they overflow out of my sullen mind and onto the paper. Each word is unique, happy and joyful, angry and stubborn, the letters convey a perspective that infects the mind and pulls them in. Lost in the jumbles of words and the puzzle pieces that don’t always connect there is a story, stories are meant to be shared.
Writing is like a lure that pricks your mouth and pulls you up from the cloudy water onto the surface of creativity and expression. The way I feel when I write is different than any other mere emotion, it is something special. Words paint the blank canvas, except the paint is dark and morbid, while hues of fuschia and pastel spring yellow still seep through.
Writing has a contrast unlike any other art medium, the happiness or gleeful nature in a poem about fresh autumn leaves can all be forgotten when you explore the barbaric and doomed path ahead. The darkness expressed in writing is chilling and unforgiving, it rattles you and leaves you aimlessly wandering like a writer's lost pen, that concealed the truest forms of literary beauty.
Words words words. they always find their way out and onto paper, the need for written expression and the overwhelming need to see my thoughts on paper is what I surrender to. I keep my words locked away and only once in a blue moon am I satisfied with my writing. The words pour out, leaking, leaking, leaking, and seeping, seeping, seeping out of my distracted mind. The words fertilize the paper and begin fruitful stories with mystery and awe. The pencil moves like a sewing needle almost pricking my finger with its sharp words, the detrimental passage and never-ending continuation of my helpless fables and defeated hero’s that will always stay on paper and reach no end.
Words words words. They cut deep like a sharp blade reaching into my stomach ready to gut its next victim. No escape for the merry-go-round that is writing. The words are like a hidden river, a beautiful spring, but in the water of the river it is cold, the cold water freezes you and paralyzes you. Stuck in the water drowning in your thoughts, being consumed by the loneliness, and swallowed up whole and in complete disarray. Writing is a weapon and a dangerous sinkhole, the words you write will keep you stuck in the paper with them, being sucked into a world that was never your own. Writing is isolating and freeing all at once. The darkness and the light keep your words honest and your memories vividly in your mind. A cursed expression that completes my withering brain from melting and being slurped up by an ugly monster, writing is my passion and my destroyer.
To write is to think on paper, for my thoughts to see their bubbling as they overflow out of my sullen mind and onto the paper. Each word is unique, happy and joyful, angry and stubborn, the letters convey a perspective that infects the mind and pulls them in. Lost in the jumbles of words and the puzzle pieces that don’t always connect there is a story, stories are meant to be shared.
Writing is like a lure that pricks your mouth and pulls you up from the cloudy water onto the surface of creativity and expression. The way I feel when I write is different than any other mere emotion, it is something special. Words paint the blank canvas, except the paint is dark and morbid, while hues of fuschia and pastel spring yellow still seep through.
Writing has a contrast unlike any other art medium, the happiness or gleeful nature in a poem about fresh autumn leaves can all be forgotten when you explore the barbaric and doomed path ahead. The darkness expressed in writing is chilling and unforgiving, it rattles you and leaves you aimlessly wandering like a writer's lost pen, that concealed the truest forms of literary beauty.
Words words words. they always find their way out and onto paper, the need for written expression and the overwhelming need to see my thoughts on paper is what I surrender to. I keep my words locked away and only once in a blue moon am I satisfied with my writing. The words pour out, leaking, leaking, leaking, and seeping, seeping, seeping out of my distracted mind. The words fertilize the paper and begin fruitful stories with mystery and awe. The pencil moves like a sewing needle almost pricking my finger with its sharp words, the detrimental passage and never-ending continuation of my helpless fables and defeated hero’s that will always stay on paper and reach no end.
Words words words. They cut deep like a sharp blade reaching into my stomach ready to gut its next victim. No escape for the merry-go-round that is writing. The words are like a hidden river, a beautiful spring, but in the water of the river it is cold, the cold water freezes you and paralyzes you. Stuck in the water drowning in your thoughts, being consumed by the loneliness, and swallowed up whole and in complete disarray. Writing is a weapon and a dangerous sinkhole, the words you write will keep you stuck in the paper with them, being sucked into a world that was never your own. Writing is isolating and freeing all at once. The darkness and the light keep your words honest and your memories vividly in your mind. A cursed expression that completes my withering brain from melting and being slurped up by an ugly monster, writing is my passion and my destroyer.
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