The more I write, the more personal these pieces become. I hear or see or taste or touch or smell - something ever so particular. Overcome with the need to describe. I type as fast as I can, clinging to the sensation or thought like a lifeline, often losing it, but trying nonetheless. Words, spit out like flame, line each chapter in short bursts, barely edited.
But why should I?
The more I edit, the more inaccurate these pieces become. I attempt a rhythm, tapping my foot, mouthing the words, establishing a beat. A tempo, a song, that only I can hear. I repeat the structures, praying to the godless universe that it's heard, but of course it never is. Honestly... I don't mind - my blood is in these words, and I don't know how much I'd like it with so many listening to them.
DU LIEST GERADE
Twisted Dreams
PoesieA collection of short stories, poems, and half-written ramblings. ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 dream \ ˈdrēm \ 1 : a series of thoughts, visions, or feelings that happen during sleep ~•°•°-----------------------------------《☆》 night·m...
