Lost Love Lust » writing

attack.

Diana — Wed, 15 Sep 2010 20:49:39 +0000

My words are weapons. Sharp blades that slither along the synapse making their way towards the center.

The center of the mind, the aura, the being.

Everything that ends, has a beginning.

I am a reversal, a rebellion, a renowned reconnaissance route reveling rurally.

I begin with smiles and end with doubts.

I speak and you listen.

Colors and brush strokes stimulate you, yet you do not see outer beauty.

You are the singer with no voice.

The painter with no vision.

The writer with no words.

Your mind is your weapon.

Use it.

dirty ends.

Diana — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 15:53:43 +0000

You watch the clock, the typical tick scratches the sides of the brain.

This thing. This thing called time.

A picture frame, the artists you seek to blame.

Dark martini, no fucking lime.

It is not the loves that you proclaim, but the true creations of disdain.

A telephone ring, a partner in crime, the key to the line.

Assign, Refine, Confine.

This thing. This thing.

What a fucking linguistic string.

propriety.

Diana — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 07:20:19 +0000

To innocently log onto this technological piece of paper once more.

To give out thought, feeling, suppression.

Like the drawing of blood from the mind and soul, to write is a passion, a frustrating
yet beautiful obsession.

Perhaps a flower, that takes much time to fully blossom.

Often it can show realistic desire, or endless dreams in-accomplishable.

But in end, for what is writing existent?

To invoke feeling?

To braver the fearful soul?

To hide under flawless facades?

Understandably so, are the ones whom write blessed or cursed?

Is it we who forever remain the observers of stories untold, unseen, unheard?

Do we not but forever search the endless plain of words to befit the connection between emotion and description?

Nevertheless, in doing so, do we unknowingly forbid ourselves from truly feeling?

Can the happy manner of a writer expose perhaps the true loneliness that
suppresses him or her?

Perhaps years from now I will look upon this moment with an ironic smile, which I suppose fits my ironic personality, but in doing so, will I truly be happy?

Is it a possibility? A simple desire? Or an ultimate goal..?

Questions upon questions, seeking upon seeking, and yet no eminent answer.

I honestly cannot find the true destiny in all that takes place.

Utter purpose.

Reason.

None.

Whatsoever.

Yet, my passion continues, and my steps lead more and more towards the path unknown.

The place of no premeditation, tireless calculation, or meaningless sensation.

I have yet to meet its inhabitants.

Ah yes, and I also visited Walmart the other day.

(Insert ironic chuckle.)