Lately I've begun to understand better why it is I like to write. And more so, I've begun to understand why my words mean so much to me. With each letter, it's as though I've made a commitment. Then I play it over and over and over again in my head so that with each go over, I add some more meaning to the words I chose to use until by the end of it, what I have left is a piece of my soul captured in time by syntax and semantics.
I wrote this and I hate it already. And I think that's the point.
We are what we pretend to be. And if all it's about is pretense and conviction, I'd like a blindfold please.
I wrote this and I hate it already. And I think that's the point.
We are what we pretend to be. And if all it's about is pretense and conviction, I'd like a blindfold please.
Grimacing at my own words, my speech is wearing thinSpiralling towards an inevitable fate,
I own no true confidence.
I know that doom and deference are matters of persuasion.
Convinced I need not convince myself any more,
I write in alliterations and I fail.
God, give me a weapon to fight this sloth
Give me a weapon to destroy myself so that perhaps I may respawn.
I hate being my own master
but I am unwilling to submit to you.
Oh cohesive contortionist
Oh rhetoric allusion
I know that this will end.
I know that this will end.
It is my crisis in faith.
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