#ft travis

ms paint awsten

Shall I compare you to a flower in spring? Or mayhaps instead to mid-Summer’s night dream? Comparisons, as such, they don’t dutif'ly dress The words that I speak and I strongly profess: To be unto spring, but to yearn unto fall, In summery lilies to winter snowfall, Your image evokes a profession with reason: An appeal to your semblance throughout all the seasons.

If you’re writing on a piece of paper, fill out most of the information, and then change your mind, do you erase it all to start over, ignoring all of the botched marks and badly erased graphite; or, do you throw away the paper and start over on a new sheet? In real life, you can’t get a new sheet; you either attempt to write over that mess of a sheet, or throw the sheet out forever. You don’t get another sheet. The sheet is me, and the writings are things I’m not proud of; things that isolate me from others. You can say sorry to “fix” it just as well as you can erase the bad writing and try to cover it with something good. It never quite looks the same. So how can I expect to ever be a truly good person if my life is already covered in smudges and broken lines? When one is flowing in their sins, how can they ever be expected to renowned for being pious in any way? Drop a bit of blood in an ocean, and, though it disperses, that ocean will never be rid of that drop of blood. Now, pour a bucket of blood into a pool, and not only will it remain, but it’ll never leave; there are no filters or chlorine in life to fix things.