anonymous

Anonymous
 
My room echoes with the sound of silent screams, they penatrate my ears. I can feel the pain that he once felt as if it were my own. I admire his faith, and words, and his ability to transform his heart onto paper.
How can he elligantly pen words so beautiful as those heard read aloud? How can he fluently correspond a single beat of the heart to litterature so graceful, as though his pen minipulated into a dancer on his page? And though we sit around and ponder, I try to accumulate enough emotion to relate to his melody of sorrow and joy born into one statement.
Diversity defined in every punctuate outreach stretching deep into our souls. telling non fiction so tenacious that we'd search for Atlantis just to hear one more solvent answer.
I've smelled honeysuckle less sweet than his lyric. A solitary Somnambulist, or a diceased kin, I'm there. I feel every heart wrenching moment and I walce over every knoll. My writing is onus at comparison to his.
So now I lay with open ears and closed eyes. Even in my dreams, his words make my worst nightmare copesetic. I can't begin to explain the life and lyric of he who we refer to as: Anonymous.