these words are nothing - they live unseen - these words are everything - they are me - spill the ink upon the page covering its nakedness with the blood of your dreams, these words are a window - they peer into my soul - is their hope left there?
Tag: art
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is it art if it is not consumed by others; if it is not seen by the public, how can it breathe? is it just a hobby; another form of work; is it play? what if it soothes, healing troubled minds? what if it inspires, sets fire to hair and moves us, but remains unknown? what if we didn't feel compelled - this insufferable need - to attach labels to all things? what if everything just was requiring no label to give it life, to define it, to provide meaning - how would we hate then?