The Writer's Torment is a collective space to showcase, poetry, short stories, screenplays, and written songs. We will have group poetry building exercise to collaborate
The Writer's Torment is a collective space to showcase, poetry, short stories, screenplays, and written songs. We will have group poetry building exercise to collaborate new masterpieces, and make writing less tormenting.
Spaceship Earth:When I tell you consciousness is rising.Do you generally get what I'm saying?That space is not what you think it is;that traveling those distances are impossible;in flight of course. J... View MoreSpaceship Earth:When I tell you consciousness is rising.Do you generally get what I'm saying?That space is not what you think it is;that traveling those distances are impossible;in flight of course. Just think about it.Do you comprehend how fast we are traveling inside our little air bubble?It twirls in spirals like the tabloids.Look inside for time. The observer of all;Close your eyes;what do you see in 5D?Blackness? Welcome to the Code Playground;it's where colorful waves find particles.Across all space; Across all time. The laws of creation are precise.How do you respect the Law of Intention?As a waddling duck or in the hawks eye?I have captured agonydrop and grit and drag then kick out a grin.To be asleep. This babble in time.To be excreted from ingrown poresDespair's shadow, gazed upon until all one can do is smile. The white sphere settled in the bunker of our treaded fairways. Space moves in adjective thrusts, a golden locket, a chain :-:-:-:-:-:The morning sky rejuvenates, jostles, and the answers fall short like parking lot shadows.An algae sucker tickling against the grimy pane.This was space. Down. Up. Down.And you were within it.If I describe it can you see it now?Just think. Clouds roll in. Rain falls and slides.Lightning strikes. Night illuminated. Stars.In busy streets the pole falls in the optic nerve.The smell of chemistry.You'll never lose it or evenfind it for that matter; itsmells like the actual sound of silence;All alone with my thoughts drawn . . .So what is this all about?A prince and a tree, A mare and a castle?What's this about solitary stillness?The eye of the storm;a trap door to a shelter within?Or because high-beams lit up my lensesand grabbed my eyesI heard the shadow of a raven.Because of the look a beggar grimacedreached my brow I jumped out of line.If the syntax of love is not tragic then how do we proceed?If there were space, could we hold it?