Scottie Waves

May my words touch you deeper than my hands ever could.

Dear April, I wish so deeply to feel something other than the thorns in my side that March has left me with.

The only difference between a philosopher, scientist and an artist is their belief.

We are all tortured by the hands of our own demons. There are those who suffer in the shadows of silence, while others suffer in the open.

It doesn’t always come, but whenever it does it lingers for awhile. Tugging at the strings of my heart and mind.

Oh life, I come to you not asking for much, but for some peace; and maybe a few bottles of wine.

There’s a sadness so deep that exists within me. It often swallows me whole and spits me back out, without anyone ever noticing.

What rots our minds, destroys our passion.

We both are unhappy, but dare not express it. Why must we bury ourselves, just so that a relationship that is clearly dying can breathe?

Another morning comes. As I watch the sunrise, sipping my coffee. The dog barks and we are still at war. Things don’t always change. Just the faces.

As I continue to age older, the most beautiful things I notice cannot be judge with money. Such as, watching the sunset, going for a walk, painting or just simply reading a book.

I miss the days when everyone looked different and had a sense of uniqueness about them. Whether it was the shape of their clothes, nose, eyes, face or figure. The way their hair was structured or their walk. Now everyone looks the same and it’s quite boring.

Today I wrote about you, then instantly regretted it. I should’ve left you in my mind, but it was the only way to get you out.

One can only pretend for so long, until the truth starts to seep through the pores.

Give me passion. Not obsession.

I write to live. Not to be heard or noticed. My heart suffers and my mind goes. Therefore, it is a necessity.