The Author
Current mood: confused
Category: Writing and Poetry
The Author
Tearing at the page once again, the frustration burns deep in his heart. All words lost now. The stacks of romantic novels are of no use. Hope is a flaunting glimpse of what could have been. He lays his head down upon the crumbled papers. The words have failed him.
How could she not see? Did he not make it clear enough? Was he too ambiguous?
Thoughts racing, as his forehead presses against the drying ink. He feels weak and utterly drained. The words are gone, scrambled like his tattered mind.
He had poured every last ounce of himself into this failed plight. He was nothing but a shell, hollowed by this daunting, wasted task of romantic quips. Had she not noticed, was she immune to his gallant gestures of raging fonts. His heart, barely beating, sank heavily in his chest.
The stacks of papers sat neatly beside the books on his desk, as did the envelopes. Each page held a piece of his heart, which he gladly offered to her in the only way he knew. Adornments sprinkled upon the pages like daisies in rolling fields of high grass. He spent many lonely nights and countless days pouring and pouring his waning heart onto these pages.
All alone he sits, head down, wasted...flailed... sinking, nothing left, nothing left to say. All alone at his desk, with these books, with these adorning, glowing tributes to love, all alone he sits. Wondering and waiting, always waiting, waiting for the time to come. And the tributes lie waiting..waiting next to the books...waiting next to the envelopes waiting to be sent. Manson.
