A White Piece of Paper

Do not stop the music. The pen must write; the ink must flow. Tales of love, mystery, glory, patience, and zealous wrath must be expressed. And the dance floor – it must permit the waltz of the pen along the lines.

Where mysterious tinges of the heart are exhausted. Beats of the little life-filled casing land on notes high and low. As I groove along the walkway, the highway, over the curb, so my pen draws out patterns of messages onto a blank piece of paper.

Sketches of a more beautiful future etch themselves into the pores of dried pulp. Silent whispers of the great beautiful mind go with every little step on which the pen imprints itself. Dreams are left to unfold and expose themselves, albeit naked, for all to scrutinize. Pour out the pain, the dirty little secrets of the side no one ever knew of!!!

Red Scarlet

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The Writer’s World

Are We the Dreamers, or the Dream Weavers?

Are We the Dreamers, or the Dream Weavers?

And as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen

Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing

A local habitation and a name.

– William Shakespeare

They say that writers are trapped, locked up in their own worlds.  They say that artists are flying high in a different dimension, submerged in the incense of smoking opium and barbiturates.  Is that really so I dare not claim.

However, I shall not deny that there is much truth in it.  There is a characteristic of beauty in a mind left alone to wander about and linger on through the passages of conciousness.

One that is highly valued in a moment of solitude.  No, we are not smokers of weed and nicotine, puffing wisps of fantasies into the crisp air.  These are really periods of self-expression; of discovering oneself in a duty of such eloquence.  Times where thoughts – our thoughts – are heard, at least to an eager audience.  Times when we speak, hoping that the Outsiders take notice as we crawl out the Dream Tunnel, arms and legs outstretched like that of the spiders.

There shall be epochs where the world seems to crumble down in dusty ashes, only to arise from within a King so mighty.

We are the Dream Weavers, weaving ideas and connecting missing links together in hopes of patching up for a better world.  We are the Sowers of the Seed, silently praying that the flower that blossoms out shall be blessed with showers of love, joy, and happiness.

There goes.  Now what am I writing about?

Red Scarlet

PS: Anyway, it is about my birthday, it’s MY BIRTHDAY – so I got to spend my money. Taylor Swift needs to come up with a new hit titled Twenty-Three.  =)

Burn Me Up in t…

Burn Me Up in the Fire

Caught in the Shadows
Burn me up in the Fire
Caught in the Darkness
Feel me down the Lair

Torch me now
Cleanse my soul
Let my ashes to
The ground sow

Lost in the Shadows
Burn me up in the Fire.