I wrote this wihle durnk #3

With every "new" word that I speak, I speak nothingness and wasted words when I speak of this infinitude. When they know not what I speak of, I cry for them. I cry ever so dearly when all I wish to do is hold them tightly in my bear paws, and kiss their tear-laden cheeks. To show them the pain they endure is no longer. I'd gladly carry the weight of the world on these wings of mine. As a man of love itself, I do nothing else. It is the live I've chosen. In life, you choose your pains and your joys long before you experience them. I simply echo nothing but those who have came before me. I am them. They were my food day in and day out as a young child, inspiring me of things that I knew were to come. What do I hope for? What is hope? I hope for nothing for I know what is to come. Why would I waste my time in doubt knowing  the good golden honey that is to wash over the canvas of my paintings in a newfound happiness no one has ever seen? They'll call me mad for I know nothing but endless love. That is all I've felt, and all I'll ever feel.