My heart aches to think of you. It cries forth with pain. As the tears stream down my face my hearts blood does the same.
Drip by drip the pool expands. higher and higher with haste. it overflows as it grows over the max, blood haphazardly displaced
Drowning. Drowning. No will to tread the seas. Sinking to the unknown depths with sheer determination and ease.
Lost. Forgotten. Pain bubbling and searing. Blood congealing, no healing causing any humanity left to start disappearing.
Now being encased in coagulated remnants of my heart just proves my innards were always meant to fall apart.
Aching. Crying. Falling. It’s all over now. Options that a lost humanity chooses to disallow…
*I always liked this one but I never did really give it a proper finish.*
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
By far one of my more favorable quotes that once came from Hemingway’s brilliant mind. It’s a daunting truth really. Writing is simple. It’s pure passion. It comes from within. What makes that a hard pill to swallow is when people shy away from what you write. When they think your blood staind on the paper isn’t enough. When, to them, there is too much blood to see a message, not enough blood to seep through or just having a non compatable type. To bleed with no acknowladgement is how a writer dies. Once it flows there is no stopping and soon there will be nothing left but a hollow shell unless there is someone willing to donate their own blood to the cause. I believe that most writers are victims in need of transfusions. Passion for passion. Those who crave to read and those who bleed to write. One does not simply exist without the other which in turn makes writing far more than nothing. It makes it challenging and frightening. It seems like no work at all to slice a vein and let it bleed, and in reality, it’s not, but when no one knows how to make it stop, or give you more… Death will be emanant. Writing is tretourous and it’s a hard thing to handle.