Travesty we call life by ArielOblivion, literature
Literature
Travesty we call life
Who am I? The only thing I have ever loved or cherished that has came from myself is this, these words spilling from my heart and soul, these words filling this once empty page, in a way I am creating life, giving motion to otherwise still words resting heavy like stone inside me. Do I cherish the wound or the blood spill which fuels ink to paper? Some how us bona fide writers are stuck with the raw deal of happiness in pain, relishing the melancholy silence and the maddening tears because if we live through it we now have something to write about. Desperation, chaos, envy, depression, lament, lovesick, hatred, regret all these things are em
Hmmm...I don't see you in there anymore > .<!
Hiers 4th block
Did I see you there once?
You were there an entire class period...talking with Michael I think...