I love to write... I come home everyday and write in my Live Journal (any fellow obsessive LJ users perhaps?? my users is douxtigres http://www.livejournal.com/users/douxtigress)
Anywho... I just thought I'd post a few things.
I have a very odd style I suppose... but it's you who does the judging.
Voila:
this is for the ones who aren't who they are
Drink from the flask of synchronicity. For you it's sensible... it's inevitable.
You're the perfect advocate to echo those in conformity.
So stand in line and mock those so unpensive.
But I can break because your expectations for my acceptance is surely off. I won't become the conception along your side... for I can view the truth in the looking glass.
A stereotypical etiquette does not put you above me when you used to linger on my level. It's your naivete that causes me to drift away from the manipulation of your new found society.
You seem to fit well within the faint-hearted.
obey your defined sonata
Caress the ivories so delicately. The ebonies interrupt. Fingers bond to the keys that let them glide so smoothly while ascending a chromatic. The language blotted across parchment is the sanity that breathes emotion. Allegro contrasts to the Largo yet blends so beauteous. Sound emits comfort and sedation. Entrance into a sub-conscious becoming of the music. Crescendo a passion. Diminish the tension. Sit before a realm and let the hands so pure, play the dream of a persona deep inside. Arpeggios are but one meausure to complete a defined tale. Engulf its superiority, for it can portray better than you can in words. Let the transparent voice hypnotize your fingers in a timely sequence. Surround yourself in an aurical embrace of a masterpiece, and let the hesitance escape.
slip away from usual tendencies
The fingers that dropped the pencil, echoing across the desk that caught the release, fold quaintly beneath a tired cheek. Eyelids begin to droop and retinas penetrate the comfortable darkness, searching for an escape from the monotone background. A scalp allows the hair to fall before the face... hiding self-conscious impurities and captivating a mystery in a loose embrace. A book of lines lies empty, for the pencil is no longer dancing through attempting fingers. The caffeine that grasps attention has long since worn off, when the lack of priority has become the insomnia.
So open your eyes little one... view and reveal your hidden reserve.
It's time to wake up and smell the new intentions.
Anywho... I just thought I'd post a few things.
I have a very odd style I suppose... but it's you who does the judging.
Voila:
this is for the ones who aren't who they are
Drink from the flask of synchronicity. For you it's sensible... it's inevitable.
You're the perfect advocate to echo those in conformity.
So stand in line and mock those so unpensive.
But I can break because your expectations for my acceptance is surely off. I won't become the conception along your side... for I can view the truth in the looking glass.
A stereotypical etiquette does not put you above me when you used to linger on my level. It's your naivete that causes me to drift away from the manipulation of your new found society.
You seem to fit well within the faint-hearted.
obey your defined sonata
Caress the ivories so delicately. The ebonies interrupt. Fingers bond to the keys that let them glide so smoothly while ascending a chromatic. The language blotted across parchment is the sanity that breathes emotion. Allegro contrasts to the Largo yet blends so beauteous. Sound emits comfort and sedation. Entrance into a sub-conscious becoming of the music. Crescendo a passion. Diminish the tension. Sit before a realm and let the hands so pure, play the dream of a persona deep inside. Arpeggios are but one meausure to complete a defined tale. Engulf its superiority, for it can portray better than you can in words. Let the transparent voice hypnotize your fingers in a timely sequence. Surround yourself in an aurical embrace of a masterpiece, and let the hesitance escape.
slip away from usual tendencies
The fingers that dropped the pencil, echoing across the desk that caught the release, fold quaintly beneath a tired cheek. Eyelids begin to droop and retinas penetrate the comfortable darkness, searching for an escape from the monotone background. A scalp allows the hair to fall before the face... hiding self-conscious impurities and captivating a mystery in a loose embrace. A book of lines lies empty, for the pencil is no longer dancing through attempting fingers. The caffeine that grasps attention has long since worn off, when the lack of priority has become the insomnia.
So open your eyes little one... view and reveal your hidden reserve.
It's time to wake up and smell the new intentions.
