Essay On Hate Words

I hate the words that are afraid to be spoken, wonderful words that should forever flow freely off the tongue, but stay locked up forever behind pearly white bars.

I hate the prisons people keep for these potentially perfect phrases, fearing that these daring words would mar their respectable reputations, and I hate the reputations that people try so desperately to protect, a fortuitous facade that we all seem to fear.

I hate the anxiety that we feel over the trivial things, the I cannot wait until tomorrow things, the what will they think about me things, and the will I ever be the same again things.

I hate the fear that prevents me from saying what needs to be spoken, the fear that has cunningly constructed me into the person currently

I hate myself for becoming the hopeless man my father is, hurting others because of his own inner

My messed up methodical mind miraculously manages to write wonderfully, pairing nouns and adjectives that surely are soulmates, stringing sentence after sentence after sentence together symphonically.
If writing is like a dirty dog, then I got bit by it.
If writing is like a dangerous dodgeball, then I got hit by it.
If writing is my passion, then I will lie with it, until the day it grows cold, then I will say goodbye to it.
But even though I have finally found my niche, the thing that constantly completes me,
I have started to heinously hate parts of it.
The parts that contain extensive expectations, that just because I can create beautiful mountains of descriptions, vast valleys of analogies, anaphoras, and alliteration, and ravenous rivers of extended metaphors and similes, every last lengthy literary peace I create must be an inspiration.
The parts that prevent me from writing what I yearn to express, keep me from writing differently because different can end in