To Replenish With Words
They are a new seed for me to plant. And like any farmer would tell you, you plant more seeds than will grow. Keep planting seeds, eventually you will get crops. But at the cost of time, of work, and discipline. Nothing of strength, of lasting taste, is ever created in the burning of one candle.
Much patience is equated to each growing moment for the seeds I plant. Hundreds, maybe even thousands will be planted before I see my words become something more. Become something other than a rain drop for my seeds. But rain for others seeds, words for others souls. A place where one can come rest their weary eyes and find themselves embedded into what pours from me, as much as I am enthralled in my words.
I don't write this is a pretentious thought, that my words carry more weight than others. But rather, that my words are consistent in planting, that I do not leave myself one day without them. And much of our lives, we are left without consistency, but to the consistency in the plain of the deary outdoors of lonely habits. Of punching the card for minuscule profit, or wasting moments in a once beautiful relationship, to only watch it fade away like wings to a clouded sky.
We are fallen angels to the weak will of our flesh. So many become inhaled by the reaping of the familiar, of the easy, and the mass. With each day slowly feeling their soul become no more than a stain upon their wall. And no matter how hard one tries to erase it, to cover it up, it remains.
It whispers for help, for comfort, for excitement. But is it not easier to leave it upon the wall like the blemish that it is? To let its pain nibble ever so lightly at ones heart? To let that missing piece be but a missing piece, to never fill the void, to fall hopefully to a numbing abyss? To become empty in the eyes, like that of the sky above cityscapes, is this not easier?
But never does this happen, never does the pain fade in the naive choice to neglect, to ignore. When one throws away their story, their love for life. There is no escape of the acute pain that salts each new wound. And this is why I write my stories, as not leave a sliver of me behind the walls of paint, nor to be forgotten upon the walls of my own home. I pray, that what I replenish in myself, will restore those around.
For we are all in need of giving and in need of faith in ourselves and something greater than our bones. We are all upon this world with great purpose, big or small. But too many stories are tossed, before they are even written, before, they are even read.
Thank you for reading, I hope these words found you in good health if not. Please begin today as a time to write your story, if only for your own sake. If you wish for more, click any of the links below or purchase a copy of the emotionally depth-ed A Man's Traveled Heart
What is your favorite part of this story? Let me know in the comments below or at , Twitter and Facebook, you can even check me out on YouTube
Thank you for your support!
Popular posts from this blog
I have been writting poetry on medium, does anyone still wish me to write short stories on here?
A Summer Bird's Winter Perch I watch this lonely bird chirp upon a slopping branch. Its feet wrapped firmly around the thin finger of bark. As I watch, I commiserate its position. Sitting there, alone, singing with no others to listen. Speaking I assume, to itself. Maybe contemplating its unfortunate circumstance. For the rest had already left for the winter. If I am not mistaken it was only a few days ago that I watched a flurry of birds dart by. Their wings flapping against the brisk wind collectively. Not a single one appeared worried of their journey. Their shadows crawled quickly across the empty streets during a fall evening. I watched them pass by like a feather floating down stream. I couldn't help but wonder, how long must they fly? What winds must they fight, what elements must they battle against? All must be against them as is every moment in time is against us all? Yet they fly forth to the heat of earth. Dependent upon their survival but, what
The Taste of Love, Will It Ever Be Mine? When will I find my lips upon the sweet taste of love? Lost to its scent like the aromal smell of roses upon skin. Will there be an end, beneath an apple tree buried next to my other half? Or will I drown in the soiled pity of my heart as whiskey stains my veins? For I find the misery of myself to be a dull company, but yet its tingles with addiction. And I draw my eyes close to the empty halls of the damned. Screaming for peace but always find myself chocking on pride. Lost in a dense fog I created in the heat of breath upon my frozen heart. Distant am I, in the reaches of tears. For they have no existence in the forefront of my mind, nor heart. Some may call me hollow, lackluster in the dreams of my own thoughts. What is one without the acceptance of tears, without the bravery to step into the engagement of vows? How does one truly go beyond his own vicious habits if there lies no other to call them out? I hear my soul whispe