Passion makes the

Passion makes the man.

Passion is an odd thing that I wish to touch, that I wish to grasp into my hands and let warm my weary soul on this dreary night. Passion is an ember that can light the flame of any broken man who is down on his sorrows. Passion is the thing that holds societies together as artists, writers, and entrepreneurs grasp the flickering ember and cast an inferno of creativity onto this world. Yet, as I stare at that ember and wish for it to warm my soul the way it has warmed others, it only burns my hands and my eyes. It mocks me with that beautiful spark that I so wish to ravish upon, to find a true feeling of inspiration and creativity. Instead, I only stare at this damned page, and only dispassionate words flow out of these slow fingers. One is born with talent yet can only execute it half heartedly to please the people around him. I am a starved man desperately clenching for anything to make me feel alive. I am a man who has had his legs chopped off and yet has been told to walk with only his mind and determination. I am a man who is so lost in his thoughts that he can only stare at the ceiling and hope for anything that could, even for a delicate second, represent passion in his mind.

I don't know if I write this so someone may read it someday, but if I do, I hope my reader will touch upon my heart for a second. For a second, my words will spark that ember of passion that I have failed to spark so many times on my own. This is my sorrow, my woe, my desperation to be heard and seen. As I hunt for something that resembles what I yearn for. As I reach the surface of my murky lake, I merely touch the beautiful pond lilies that float above. Oh, how I am a sick man yearning for his lover to touch her gentle hand upon my aching cheek and to soothe that which troubles me with an even gentler word. I will not explain, nor will I offer any easy resolution, only will I raise upon self-loathing and self-pondering. My intent is not a kind one, but kind is not tough love but instead, a slap against the wrist and hands prying open the eyes of those who need to see.

I will not read this through, for my hatred for these words boils too harshly to even lay my eyes upon the sentences I will work hours upon. Instead, these words will be left in a corner to simmer and pop with rage as they are ignored and wilted. These words are the words of a madman who has finally lost his head and instead is just rambling about something all people know. I am that crazy man who claims doomsday while sitting in his chair in solitary with no wife or kids but instead in the cold, harsh wind that wishes to eat me alive. Passion would help solve all of these problems, or at least in my naive mind, I think it will. I have so many talents, yet as I stare at a page, I can do none. With a pencil and a piece of paper, I can do so many things just with that singular sheet and piece of graphite. I could create a beautiful poem that will touch the hearts of my readers and make them weep tears of agony. I could write a musical composition that,t once heard, will soothe an aching soul and make them feel light on their feet once again. I could draw a beautiful masterpiece that will show the very soul with every stroke of the pencil. Yet I stare at the paper and crumple it in my hand as I feel anger for its mere existence, its empty white lines taunting me and telling me that I must do something, anything, or else I have failed. But it just sits there and forever stays blank as I stare at the walls that are slowly crawling into trap me.

When one strips me bare, he will not see a man but an empty husk that has lost all meaning, a puppet that has had its strings cut and its show taken away from them. I can feel the motivation slipping from me as I write these words, but please hear them, feel them, and ponder them. Read my words and reflect on yourself to see where that ember has touched you. Do not let this ember burn you as it burns me.