foolish

I always wondered why I can't seem to write about anything else but love. Everything I say sounds like a lovesick pubescent desperate for attention. What would I know about love. I've only tasted artificial sweetener and been stuck in preserved honey. After a while I look back and regret what I say, because I'm nothing but 2 faced. Acting as I've seen the every horror in this world, I stay in my room drowning in silence. It happens too often making me nothing more than a foolish person. If it's one thing I can write about, then I'll write to my enjoyment because there's no rule saying you have to write about more than one topic. If I wish hard enough I won't get treated like the past is my present. It isn't, it's just a gateway to my writing.

My writing that flows across a canvas in stokes, covering it with the colors of the southern lights in the night sky, illuminating the eyes of everyone and flaring a passion in their hearts, leaving them in awe.