Hah

Funny, the way life works. I have been inspired to write something nice lately. I have noticed that almost all of my works are either depressing, angry, or revolting, and I felt it was high time I did something that was a bit more upbeat. I spent all day just thinking of ideas that could be turned into something nice, and I couldn't help but think of terrible, awful, depressing things. A week ago, I was grasping at straws for ideas for things to write about, but now I turned down every single idea that is similar to my normal writing style. Though, I mean, it would bother me more if I felt as though I was inflicting feelings on anyone with anything I do. When it comes down to it, my works will never help somebody through something, they will never inspire anyone, they will never contribute to anything. I am a mediocre writer at best who chooses to write in tacky styles and/or about things that no one wants to read about. Like an open-mic night poet that makes everyone in the room feel uncomfortable. Nonetheless, enjoy (or at least humor me) some shitty thing I wrote.

Orchestrated Disappointment
There was a little boy who sat calmly by a creek
Every day he spent so silently, listening to the birds and listening to the trees.
The orchestrated song of nature that resounded around his head,
the rustling of the wind upon the rocks and leaves and flowing of the water.
And some days he felt inclined to try to join the beauty,
but the only sounds that rose from his throat were groans of pain and sadness.
One night he lay beside the creek and stared up toward the sky;
he saw a shooting star and wished upon it witha  twinge of hope.
His wish was not of wealth or class, but he wished only for a voice.
His intents were just to join the woods in solemn song,
but soon he would learn that wishes seldom end up well.
In the morning he felt inspired to leave the creek,
he wanted to unite the world.
His expedition started as he marched upon the city.
The words flowed so fluidly and perfectly, they seemed to have no end.
He made a thousand friends and passed through school with but a thought.
He was hired on the spot to fill the slot for global peace.
With his iron voice he set the world at ease.
At first the world remained apart, but they slowly integrated.
With help from his solid words and phrases he pulled the strings that tied the world,
strings that were perhaps a bit too strong; a steal thread run round a mouse,
and to the forefront of this unity, this universal sense of self.
Was thrust the boy who wished upon a star,
and as the boy, now turned a man, gazed upon his world of peace,
he wanted nothing but to sing along with birds and creeks and trees.