My abstract painting
Original date: 3-14-2006
Typing and typing, trying to find the words that belong to entertain ten people and I don't think that you'd believe me that there's something to this but my mind is turned into a blank and the sentence crashes then starts to burn. You could tell from the quivering hands if only you could see them that they desperately want to get something out that my brain is frantically trying to make coherent and this abstract painting is dying and drying. It's becoming more and more apparent as the brush strokes become fewer and fewer until inspiration hits and slothfulness takes over and the idea dies. You can see that there is more of a void and less of a hole as it's consumed and left for the vultures in that bleak state of stupidity. There's a few scrabbles of words on an otherwise blank page and in the two minutes it would take to cover this I would ramble on for an eternity that no one would understand as the song on repeat keeps me writing at a break neck speed that would otherwise be unheard of. This is my art, my way of expression, this is eternal. Somewhere in the future it will be found long after I've passed and my memory is turned to ash, this will be my requiem in your solitary existence. So give me something real, not just another abstract thought in the emptiness of plasma.
Typing and typing, trying to find the words that belong to entertain ten people and I don't think that you'd believe me that there's something to this but my mind is turned into a blank and the sentence crashes then starts to burn. You could tell from the quivering hands if only you could see them that they desperately want to get something out that my brain is frantically trying to make coherent and this abstract painting is dying and drying. It's becoming more and more apparent as the brush strokes become fewer and fewer until inspiration hits and slothfulness takes over and the idea dies. You can see that there is more of a void and less of a hole as it's consumed and left for the vultures in that bleak state of stupidity. There's a few scrabbles of words on an otherwise blank page and in the two minutes it would take to cover this I would ramble on for an eternity that no one would understand as the song on repeat keeps me writing at a break neck speed that would otherwise be unheard of. This is my art, my way of expression, this is eternal. Somewhere in the future it will be found long after I've passed and my memory is turned to ash, this will be my requiem in your solitary existence. So give me something real, not just another abstract thought in the emptiness of plasma.
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