Response to Onomatopoeia

Love is beyond superstition.
I find it hard to write that down.

The way I see it, everyone’s inking parchments of devotion and anguish. I, on the other hand, delve on success and optimism. Something that deviates my being a pessimist, yet madly creates every disparity I have from them. They who liquidate imagery and vandalize its essence from those who breathe each and every word of its figures.

Stark consciousness caused me to realize that I shall always be as forlorn. That has long been my life. So long, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and I can even rebuild the same roof of any house. That is why I’ve traced my own style of writing prose and poetry, not lifting letters from any other text. Just now, another criminal was added to my list.

Sentimentality never pays a price. Beauty does not come from language. Language comes from beauty, and that is what you need to understand. It’s not about flowers and butterflies flittering within your lines. Not even about the shape and artistry of the human heart. It’s about living through the darkness and playing with shadows to croon the very pain. Because, in truth, it was never about love.
The wounds make you write. The scars make you live in search of a method to erase their permanence.

You use imagery in force of “effortlessly” provoking readers of false love. That I tell you is heinous and unforgivable.
The battlefields are drawn from those presumed tactlessness and deviances, that I derive pity from those who’ve been blinded. I can almost fearlessly predict that soon they’d color you with recognition, a grasp of your true being that is thickened by morass.
Not do I write a piece in steep spearing of your work. I write this, because I too am a sinner. I too can see the faulty recesses of your mind. I too have my own breakages.
Only I know how to pick up the shards even with blood on my hands.
I know where to be, and who I really am.

So what brings you here, reading these words that you’ve began to misjudge, or worse, loathe? There’s no canopy, there’s no appraisal.
There are only lies waiting to be heaved by your subsistence.