verwirrt / crab and proud
I was bewildered and crying
When I realized at the corner of a toy store
My mom had disappeared
Although a stranger was kindly trying to talk to me
I didn’t listen to anything that was said to me.
Whenever I'm around my canvas I get a sickening feeling, a sharp, painful ache that spirals through my body before residing inside of my heart. Think about that for a second, all these motions that this pain takes and it decides to strike me in the heart? Out of all the lovely places, it chose my heart. Not my forehead where I could suffer from severe headaches for the rest of my life, nor my eyes, where I could handle my vision slipping in and out of focus, to be filled with fuzzy multicoloured dots and hazy. No, it strikes my heart. Makes me clutch my chest and wheeze, making me think of all the things I've done, and will do, and have not yet done. So I avoid my canvas as much as possible, but at night that calling comes back to me and in my half drunken, half lethargic stupor, I'll slip out of the bed and draw once again. It may kill me, drawing that is, but it is my passion.
We all have passion, to certain degrees and levels. Be it romance or just the will to accomplish, we all have that burning drive for something. Sometimes passion is dangerous, it spirals out of control like a violent fire, engulfing you and swallowing your pride, your inhibitions and common sense, leaving you blind and naked on display. Sometimes it burns...you pine for it, whatever it may be, so bad that you fall limp, weak and tired, listless and feckless. Sometimes passion is good, you pursue it in an ardent way, innocent and pure, and you strive to get what you want done. And you succeed- or so I've read, I never have accomplished achieving my control over passion, nor have I seen any of my other peers do so.
We all have our faults, but one man, one boy, I know may never have a fault in my eyes.
Alexander Huntley.
Regal name, isn't it? Just saying his name...it's amazing. The things he does...I'm rambling, so I must apologize for my fan boy like behaviour, but talking about him gets me flustered. He's just ...amazing. I cannot find another term that would fit him perfectly. His words, the way he writes, is mind blowing. When I had first read his book Fecklessly Fine I was in awe, dumb struck and aching once more. The same familiar rush that I received while I was painting. Nothing gave me that rush besides painting. Nothing.
When I realized at the corner of a toy store
My mom had disappeared
Although a stranger was kindly trying to talk to me
I didn’t listen to anything that was said to me.
Whenever I'm around my canvas I get a sickening feeling, a sharp, painful ache that spirals through my body before residing inside of my heart. Think about that for a second, all these motions that this pain takes and it decides to strike me in the heart? Out of all the lovely places, it chose my heart. Not my forehead where I could suffer from severe headaches for the rest of my life, nor my eyes, where I could handle my vision slipping in and out of focus, to be filled with fuzzy multicoloured dots and hazy. No, it strikes my heart. Makes me clutch my chest and wheeze, making me think of all the things I've done, and will do, and have not yet done. So I avoid my canvas as much as possible, but at night that calling comes back to me and in my half drunken, half lethargic stupor, I'll slip out of the bed and draw once again. It may kill me, drawing that is, but it is my passion.
We all have passion, to certain degrees and levels. Be it romance or just the will to accomplish, we all have that burning drive for something. Sometimes passion is dangerous, it spirals out of control like a violent fire, engulfing you and swallowing your pride, your inhibitions and common sense, leaving you blind and naked on display. Sometimes it burns...you pine for it, whatever it may be, so bad that you fall limp, weak and tired, listless and feckless. Sometimes passion is good, you pursue it in an ardent way, innocent and pure, and you strive to get what you want done. And you succeed- or so I've read, I never have accomplished achieving my control over passion, nor have I seen any of my other peers do so.
We all have our faults, but one man, one boy, I know may never have a fault in my eyes.
Alexander Huntley.
Regal name, isn't it? Just saying his name...it's amazing. The things he does...I'm rambling, so I must apologize for my fan boy like behaviour, but talking about him gets me flustered. He's just ...amazing. I cannot find another term that would fit him perfectly. His words, the way he writes, is mind blowing. When I had first read his book Fecklessly Fine I was in awe, dumb struck and aching once more. The same familiar rush that I received while I was painting. Nothing gave me that rush besides painting. Nothing.
"The Blanket Truth" by 
allforyouremy