I'd appear strong in photographs like i don't feel the destruction.
I'd take pictures in style like i don't feel the pain of abandonment.
Listening to music of depressed people like i don't have a future to build.
My compressed emotions and disillusioned thoughts are the only stuff I try to express, and in whatever way... you'd get the message.
We're all trying to express ourselves by any means possible, and so we'd;
-Take pictures or rather, paint 'em to define a present state; anyone could understand a frame.
-Writing music, making rhythm a voice...Or fashion, styling a muse in whatever emotions that could be displayed.
I might sit all day writing an epistle of crap, the kind of crap that only make sense to me...stuff that might never be seen or appreciated,
I'd express myself in the exact way I feel with every word that fits.
It's called Art...a form of expression.
Most people think I am easily read; great!
I like to be viewed and understood so no one mistakes me for RUDE and HELPLESS...
I am just like a book.
Just like a book;
I am just as disclosing as every random page you've flipped over,
I am just as free and light-weighted as every balloon released into the sky.
Just like a book;
Rumpling a page of my life makes me incomplete; it's like setting my heart ablaze... I can't burn and breathe all at once.
I've spent my life double checking reality...is it what I've known it to be? Or is it what we've defined it to be?
These days people prefer the truth untold,
Why is the truth a problem?
Why has SINCE BLOOD IS RED become a threat?
My followers still argue in my comments section on whether or not the post should be taken down,
It took me this long for my written voice to be heard...or rather, seen.
"No, Am sorry to those who're offended but SINCE BLOOD IS RED is definitely staying... If not for a positive change at least for future references, to remind me of my fame era" I said underneath my breath.
THE CLOUDED SUN
There're a million words I should have spoken,
Ten thousand words I should have written; but my fingers jitter every-time I pick up my ink.
I wish I spoke the exact way I thought,
I wish I wrote as fast as my ideas flowed.
I've written myself in and out of unlawful sadness; everything suffocates me.
I've written myself into the clouds and back; my only get away from nervous breakdowns.
I've written for me the truth and the lie; I've written a lot more than I should... but it's never really enough, is it?
It took more than just words to prove myself; the audacity was all I needed.
Up until now, I have been that sun behind the clouds; afraid of alien thoughts and imperfect opinions...afraid to ruin relationships that weren't even profiled.
A million words I have tried to speak,
Ten thousand words I have tried to write; I am held back by the thin thread of fear with hope to overthrow the clouds with my dazzling light.
ADAORA.
CHAPTER END
Art is a form of expression...did you know that?
THE WRITER'S FEAR is gradually coming to an end.
Don't forget to vote, follow and comment on my book...it's gonna mean a lot. Love y'all and stay put as you await the last two chapters.
YOU ARE READING
THE WRITER'S FEAR
Non-FictionBOOK REVIEW The story of a young writer who happened to be a victim of an impromptu gun fight alongside two of her friends. This survival adventure seemed to them like a mystified mishap, they had wished it was just a nightmare. Luckily fo...
