You people disgust me.
You, yes you. The one who is reading this journal wondering what new drama I'll start next. The only reason you read is because you want to find out some trashy tidbit of information to use against some person. Gossiping whores, you should be ashamed of yourself.
As a writer I spend much of my spare time creating stories that could be used to capture the mind and take it on a journey beyond the simple visual capacity. To get lost in a world that is beyond your own, to -see- the words play out in front of you, instead of reading them.
But no, my art form has been left behind for slack jawed horny idiots who browse for porn and "awesome" art these days. What happened to the inner child who would beg for a bed time story, or would spend time trying to figure out the letters so mom and dad wouldn't have to read you your favorite book anymore?
What has happened to you people?
You disgust me.
You, yes you. The one who is reading this journal wondering what new drama I'll start next. The only reason you read is because you want to find out some trashy tidbit of information to use against some person. Gossiping whores, you should be ashamed of yourself.
As a writer I spend much of my spare time creating stories that could be used to capture the mind and take it on a journey beyond the simple visual capacity. To get lost in a world that is beyond your own, to -see- the words play out in front of you, instead of reading them.
But no, my art form has been left behind for slack jawed horny idiots who browse for porn and "awesome" art these days. What happened to the inner child who would beg for a bed time story, or would spend time trying to figure out the letters so mom and dad wouldn't have to read you your favorite book anymore?
What has happened to you people?
You disgust me.
Naught but Ash.
Watch the pages as they flutter by,
naught but weightless ash in the breeze.
The text of legends and history
nothing but a faint smeared memory.
Come my brethren, throw the quills aside!
watch the flames consume our lives,
consume our passions and love,
the diligent work burning passionately.
The black and white butterflies flutter by,
delicate wings brushing gently, softly,
never lingering on a steadfast course,
the beauty forever imprinted in the mind.
Gaze now, as our words fly to ash,
burning the books we loved, cherished.
The butterflies no more, delicacy forgotten,
all left behind for marble statues.
Beauty behold the smooth stone men,
no patience left to wait for butterflies,
no time left to cherish the quill,
all left now to turn to naught but ash.
