Oh battered blog, I do not mean to use this apostrophe to make up for my previous abeyance in your maintenance, rather, I feel I have no other way to begin. While you drowned in my negligence I went along and hammered at the gargantuan hour glass known as time; the shards of glass that scattered at my feet I used to make art. Indeed, I feel my art has grown over my tenth year of schooling, yet it is also more smothered by the aforementioned hour glass as well as other rampant passions. I have evolved, yet my development is held back by many factors. Nevertheless, I managed to spew enough blood to use as paint...and ink...and yoga mats... My heart is the fist the knocks on many doors, betwixt each it sings and it soars. It beats and it beats; it pounds and it pounds, but awaits no reply before it hits foreign grounds. My heart is an abandoned baby on a doorstep at night, crawling through darkness and streetlights bright. Crimson tears it cries with which to paint and write, the child feeds on its own glee, evil, hope and fright. My heart is an environmentalist and a farmer, it recycles its cold, cruel blood into something warmer. It sows the seeds of its demise in time's sweet soil, and reaps the fresh crop to once more revel and toil.
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AuthorThe tortuously torturous labyrinth of this life is depicted through the adolescent eyes of a lost soul... Archives
October 2016
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