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The clouds are rolling in over the atmosphere as do our emotions sweep our thoughts; the rain falls from the clouds as do are tears from our eyes. Since I publicly named myself a writer/artist my inspiration has erupted into emptiness similar to a volcano rushing from the earth. Tortured thought cycles and miss guided emotions attaching on any spark of attention I can find. The inner comfort has left me bleeding from my nails leaving stained streaks along my paths. Am I humble, this new loneliness that was engaged from my separation from the city has left my blood cold and green with sickness? I am dying, much like a rose in a vase of stale water. Dying by one lifeless rose petal at a time. The scabs formed from the wounds are still healing my exterior but, the inside is wilting. Sleeping is my new hobby and abolishes everything else; my dreams in which I cannot remember are what I cherish. Memories that I create are only temporary and vanish once I awake the next morning leaving my thoughts open. An overwhelming sadness burns my daily tasks. A horizon is in my near future and the clouds seem to be becoming overcast with slight rays of sunshine sprouting down on my grey road. I admit the cautious approach to a new future is present and my wall feels to be higher than five years ago, naturally of course. The immediacy of my life that I once knew is now spread out like the oil leak in the gulf dumping 250 million gallons a day. My hope is this sprouting ray of sunshine I feel is warming in my cold heart.


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The following comments are for "Entry 2-4"
by NucleusFire





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