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A child’s crayon bent, worn down flakey, smooth she has used it for all her notebooks
Sometimes I find myself Asking myself What kind of horror,
In the light of the lamp creatures come and go, Passing from pen to page in its eerie glow. Far off places full of castles and kings, Places where the world is happy and sings. Sings it does of the wonders of old,
I cannot express my passion and inclination for doing what I have always loved to do At one point, I was pulled from the path I was destined to follow and was distracted by petty things such as money and status and locale
[W]RITE and write until the words become worlds [R]ISE above mountains and clouds made of ink [I]NTO mystical realms crafted by quills [T]AME thy readers with a masterly piece [E]XPLORE the universe hidden within
My pen The paper mate black one that spills in my book It’s good to me Makes me feel open, even when I decide not to be It speaks for me
I have been living my life in ink, but now I'm wishing for an eraser. I used to be a passionate girl. Nothing could phase her. I have been living my life in ink. But now I'm wishing for graphite. I used to write what I want and want what I write.
I don’t know what to do with my life. I mean, I do - I have a lot of things I want to do before I turn 27 - but... I just really don’t know what to fucking do at this moment. Maybe I could write something?
Once, I envisioned this as a simple task. but molding sculptures from air never is. I sit and type yet all I got was words essay.... story.... paper...
when i knock on it, my head sounds hollow. it’s unsurprising. nothing good has been made in there for days, my brain might have shriveled up in its static, echoey cavity.