I'm going to call this project, "The Theme of Self-Improvement and validation; The Writing Experiment."
To counter this I shall try making public some of the thoughts I have, the writings I do for fun and for catharsis.
This being said, I am not a poet.
I am not a lyricist or lyrist.
I'm probably not the story teller I once was years ago.
But I do want to try to be these things again.
Without further ado, here is a piece, currently unnamed, because that feels more pretentious than thus already is (0.o).
I stood and watched, the shadows grown long in the cool evening light.
The boy, crestfallen and mired in scars of his own creation, as he stared - muted - at the wall in front of him.
For each he piece he attempted, grand in enthusiasm, then with a baleful moan his head fell into his hands. Anguish, rage and sorrow.
I reached to the boy,
Yet that distance, less than an arms reach away.
A chasm, a hollowed abyss of shadows.
A valley of death.
Oh is this the world your dreams have wrought.
As if to prove this right, he started again,
His process of self-destructive creation.
From his chest out he pulled his still beating, still beating, heart.
And with practised precision drove it into the wall.
Each strike another scar on his body.
He moans in agony as it smashes.
Ruby red tear drops as they fall, fragments of the whole.
And so he does his next artwork, slowly, he pauses.
To his situation he is so acutely aware.
He stoops, picks up the pieces, and attempts to place them back in.
His bastardry of what all once knew, goes unnoticed, like the shards upon the floor.
I see him, in his torturous loneliness.
And leave him be.
And off!
Yours faithfully, The Old Wolf.