He wrote. Not as anything serious, just a hobby. He never showed anyone his work. But one day, his friend read over his shoulder. “This is really good! Is there more?“ He looked up, staring into his friend‘s face for a good long moment. “It‘s a secret.“ A confused look crossed his friend‘s face. He wasn‘t usually this secretive. „Are you sure you can‘t tell me?“ He nodded. “Very sure. I‘ll tell you when I‘m ready.“ Years passed, and still he wrote. Finally, one day, he came to his friend. “I‘m ready to share my story.“ Together they sat on the sofa, and his friend opened the old notebook that he‘d seen his companion write in all those years ago. The pages were soft and covered in revisions in his friend’s handwriting, past versions of the story blending together behind the finished product. And he read. He read the rest of the day and into the night. He read as the air outside grew crisp and the skies became clear. He read as the sofa became a ship, and the walls opened into a starry sky. He read as they soared over stormy seas and dense forests, grand empires and small villages, immense battles and colorful fields. He read and read until he came to the last page and four very important words. “The world is yours.“ He watched his friend in anticipation. Slowly, his friend looked up from the old notebook. “Is it real?“ “As real as we want it to be.“ (Edited to clarify details)
The writer an enigmatic fellow was he, A quiet life kept he Lost in a world of his own Never truly was he alone Page after Page of tales did he write Never did he believe they were written right As he had lived he would die No one ever knowing why For a quiet life did he live A quiet death is all he received...
He was sitting in the dark, his undeniable white and thin fingers cramping around his pen, trying to write down some letters a toddler would have drawn better .In silent hope that they may form words who would grow up to full phrases, he sat there stoic, silent some sharp tongue might say lethargic. He sat there now for hours, he sat there so long he couldn't even tell why he sat there, and after a long breathtaking moment he layed the pen next to the paper and began to cry. He began to cry and to shout but those screams of Hopelessness and Despair have never been heard. A desperate laughter relieves him as he looks at his paper, no one might ever read the phrases he wrote , phrases of beauty and hope, phrases about things he never had. "No one would ever read it", he thought as he just threw the masterpiece of all written things in the junk. A kismet of so many words written with so much Passion but received with no love.
The Poet and The Writer. The Poet believed that no one would ever know their works, and so, despairing in the rain, they kept up their practice as hobby, nonetheless. The Poet believed that no one would ever know their works; that is, until he met her. The writer. Out in the rain one night, notepad and pen in hand for catching inspiration, he strolled along the dreadful dark streets, writing a word here or there. Then, out of the corner of his focus, He noticed an umbrella just as dark as his own, Leaned just as Akilter into a shoulder, on a bench he'd considered using. He looked at her, and saw himself and someone else, he observed in his unusual ways, untill he noticed she was doing the same, observing his every detail, his every creased shirt, habitual stance, or odd expression, learning as much about him as she could before conversing. Just like he does. He had a crazy thought as he saw her notepad. He hesitated, but then wondered if he'd ever get the chance again. He decided to do it. Nervously, Jerkily, He shoved out his notepad for her to read. She read, fascinated and intrigued, She held out her own, still reading. He accepted, and read the most brilliantly interesting and unique notes he could ever have imagined be as similar to his own as these were. They looked into each other's eyes, and wordlessly agreed. The Poet and The Writer walked quietly down the rainy street, umbrellas side by side, taking notes, and pointing to inspirations, and showing the notes they'd taken, occasionally conversing on what they'd seen. For the rest of that night, they savored the company they gave each other. On their ways home, The Poet and The Writer each were brimming with excitement at the inspiration they'd found with their new companion. It would be the beginning of their greatest works, each one thought. The Poet and The Writer both Knew that they'd have to meet again. Edit: Very well, I shall continue. Part two. Neither The Poet nor The Writer. Tirelessly The Poet and The Writer worked; Productive Night after tired morning, Focusing, Refining, capturing the essence they had gathered. Line after line, Day after week they refined; Neither realizing what they had truly created untill it had taken shape; He had written a masterwork of metaphor and simile, a work of stumbling upon love and being swept away by it; She had written a magnificent short story of Love finding you, carrying you Jerkily, awkwardly, happily through dark nights and darker thoughts. Neither The Poet nor The Writer had truly realized what had happened untill their masterworks had been completed. The Poet and The Writer had discovered the topic of their great works that night in the rain, weeks ago by now. She cursed her stupidity, they'd agreed to meet again. He Cursed his manic work ethic, he should have been back to that bench again by now. Neither the Poet nor The Writer celebrated the completion of their great works that night, they were both glum, and were it not for the quality of their works, would have shredded them in despair; in getting caught in their work, The Poet and The Writer had forsaken the only thing that brought them there. Neither The Poet nor The writer Would ever Know Love Again. Or so they thought. Author's Note: Tomorrow The Story ends. Or So I thought. An Author does not control their story, Quite the opposite, in fact. So I shall surf this flood of story tonight. Part Three: The Story. The Poet and The Writer both left their houses that evening, the somber rains their only friend; a constant reminder of the glumness that fills their hearts, and sours their works to dreadful tales of dark nights and darker thoughts. Their achievement at making great pieces drowned in the demons they found in the rain. Untill She saw herself again, notepad glumly under arm. And He saw himself on the street, Umbrella Akilter, Shoulders down. The Poet and The Writer saw they're own sadness in each other, and knew what had happened. Cautiously, fearfully, They approached each other. Closer, He cautiously stepped. Closer, She gently, Shyly reached. Face to face, They saw in each other's eyes the desire, The careful emotion that couldn't be spoken, yet had to be expressed with mouth. At that joyous, Tearful moment, They launched their faces together, and revelled in this divine expression of that which they had finally, truly known. Love. She grabbed his hand, A gesture that meant more than she thought it would; but she didn't care. Rosy-Cheeked, She ran them to her house. Her study. As he stood in awe, and admiration, She shoved delicate folder after secure satchel into his arms. Gathering All she could, She opened her door, smiling, gesturing him to lead. And Grinning wildly, He took her hand and gently led her, Running carefully to his Home. Dried off, in his workspace, She was fascinated and Awed. As He prompted Her to action, The Writer and The Poet pulled sheet after note after booklet of her works from Her Satchels and His Jackets, and Wordlessly, They worked, assembling paragraph after line, in a dance of Creation and discovery, The Poet and The Writer worked in perfect, yet imperfect, destined, Human Harmony, until it had begun. Their Greatest work had a beginning. It was alive! It Had to be told, it screamed in possibility, it grew naturally from themselves. It was _The Story._ Looking into each other's eyes again, both hands intertwined; their happiness rose between them, The breaths increasing in frequency and warmth, and Love. Fascination, Joy, and Freedom Flowed around them. And Pressed together, Down they went to the floor. Sheets and Scraps fluttered around and beneath them in a majestic dance of Joy and Love. They worried not about what scraps they might Lose, they had all the inspiration the might ever Need in front of, and around them. This would not be the last night of their passion. The Authors Awoke, and made breakfast. And spoke. And learned of each other. The Authors were happy. For in each other, They had found and Created; *_The Story._*
She writes to express, She writes to hide, She writes to live, She writes to die, She writes to ponder, She writes to forget, She writes for love, She writes for hate, She writes because of happiness, She writes because of loneliness, She writes because of joy, She writes because of sorrow. I write to show that we are everything and nothing.
He wrote. Not as anything serious, just as a hobby. One day his friend read over his shoulder and said "Hey this is really good." But then he took his schizophrenia medication. His friend disappeared, and he realized that what he had been writing was actually just a youtube comment under a video of some guy's recent vacation to Mexico. It contained an incoherent rant about how the government and one of his neighbors were working together to spy on him with paper
He was sitting in the dark, his undeniable white and thin fingers cramping around his pen, trying to write down some letters a toddler would have drawn better .In silent hope that they may form words which would grow up to full phrases, he sat there stoic, silent some sharp tongue might say lethargic. He sat there now for hours, he sat there so long he couldn't even tell why he sat there, and after a long breathtaking moment he layed the pen next to the paper and began to cry. He began to cry and to shout but those screams of Hopelessness and Despair have never been heard. A desperate laughter relieves him as he looks at his paper, no one might ever read the phrases he wrote , phrases of beauty and hope, phrases about things he never had. "No one would ever read it", he thought as he just threw the masterpiece of all written things in the junk. A kismet of so many words written with so much Passion but received with no love. Please forgive me my English mistakes if there are some. English isn't my mother tongue and I tried to just pick up the vibe.
Me: stressing out with exams and wishing any background music, that I didn't listen to, appeared TH-cam Notifications: *Lucas King - The writer* Me: *YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA*
I've recently been trying to write my first full novel, a dark fantasy story revolving around a manipulative and intelligent noble, and your music is always great to listen to in the background, keep up the great work my man
My thoughts are my companions. My dreams are my home. My words are my hopes. My pen is my soul. Take my ideas, Im alone. Take my dreams, Im lost. Take my words, Im bleak. Take my pen, I am inanimate. One can handle loneliness, One can find a new path to walk upon, One can believe in something, or someone else. But no one can replace the pen. What good is a writer, without a *soul?*
Furkan Efe: 👽✒saludos desde cancun; escribir el arte del pensamiento plasmado en hojas las cuales se han convertido en pixeles, los cuales sin llegar a enfadarte, podrás escribir la nitidez de tus pasiones con ayuda de tus sueños y un poco de comprensión🖎📝✍🎵📸💻⌨🖱📚📰
Man, all my life I have tried to write a complete novel, but I always give up, but I've been writing a story for 4 months, and your music is what keeps me writing, inspires me, and if it weren't for you, by Peter Grundy, Adrian Von Ziegler, and Nox Arcana, I would have already thrown my project overboard, thank you very much for your music.
Just remember to get the first drafts written out before the rewrites it's allowed to be bad as it's only the firsts just focus on getting stuff written down for the first drafts And any holes you do find are just opportunities to improve the story for the better.
Writers, poets and this mysterious music are certainly beacons of hope in this world. A reminder to be grateful for what we possess and not envy. A reminiscence to cherish experiences and not-traps of enmity. A recollection of that which we uphold dearly... Merely grasping this does not require an epiphany, but courage and prudence in bedlam and mental atrophy.
They're probably all busy slamming out short stories elsewhere in the comments section. I actually just finished my ritual of doing so... and then taping my keyboard back together because I'm not so good at the "short" part. lol
No Enemies by Charles McKay "You have no enemies, you say? Alas! my friend, the boast is poor; He who has mingled in the fray Of duty, that the brave endure, Must have made foes! If you have none, Small is the work that you have done. You’ve hit no traitor on the hip, You’ve dashed no cup from perjured lip, You’ve never turned the wrong to right, You’ve been a coward in the fight."
I know you guys are making a joke out of all the writers here, but pretty sure that's just how strong Lucas' songs are. You just hear the melodies and they IMMEDIATELY spark an image of something to a writer's head, perhaps a dark tale, a dark mind, just something entirely else, but Lucas' songs are just this much steeped in emotion, can we just appreciate that? Weiters or not, it's impressive to make music this expressive.
bruh his videos be STAYING a hidden gem, I found his channel like years ago and he still usually gets only this amount of views. its a shame though because his compositions are so great.
TH-cam algorithm prevents music from being recommended a lot in favor of mainstream content. LK used to get like 50-60k views years ago. And let's not forget, his dark music comps have gotten a mil. It sucks because hes such a talented composer too.
The heroes of a story very often have to fight an individual, an entity, a macabre source threatening their happiness or that of the society in which they live. It is quite rare that they fail, and when the evil is defeated, they celebrate their victory in the ignorance that the real antagonist of a story is the writer himself.
Só Eu Sinto? É como uma tempestade,Horas antes tudo tão tranquilo, relações quentes e afetuosas é o que transparece.Parece que quando a tempestade se forma tudo vem a tona a vontade de estar sozinho(a) é o que predomina e com ela vem acompanhado uma angústia que rasga a garganta,relações quentes se tornam cada vez mais frias, fazendo com que esteja presente em falas e olhares.A única coisa que cabe e predomina nesse ambiente espinhoso são as músicas tristes,ou horrososas,até o certo ponto que você se isola tanto que as coisas boas começam a voltar devagarzinho.A tempestade passa,tudo fica bem,mas no fundo,algo lhe indicando que em breve ela voltará!
That's incredible. I'm a brazilian writer, and this song is ideal for this hot summer night, when I'm organazing the next plots for my caracters. In direct translation, the novel is named Suicidals under Neons.
In the shadows from the world of night she held her pen, what should she write? Her stance was pensive Her shoulders hunched She felt defensive She would not run. Instead she wrote, on an empty page, how people spoke, and how they played.
Writer writer of the night With your pages turning bright and when you read them your mind blow and then exclame: "just one more row!" In a lovely street of the life you can write what tells the soul But in a lonely street of the heart Your beatings give you their own
I wrote a poem in the comments of "the poet" so... (Before we begin, I hope this series continues and includes "the artist" and most importantly to me "the philosopher") The candle´s light danced, vitalised by the passion of the hand, running across the paper. Each stroke of the pen, each line of ink, added a new piece to the puzzle. Each sentence, scribbled in the hand´s desperate attempt to keep up with the mind lost so deep in thought, gives... life. And yet the writer did not play god. She knew, more than she knew anything she ever learned, that the scene in her mind was true. Not fact, but true. But she was not the god of the world she created. Had she been, she could have ensured her creation´s good fortune. Had she been, she would be responsible for them. But she coiuld barely controll their actions, so how could she ever be held acountable? She noted, barely, how she took a new piece of paper. A new chance, a new... tabula rasa? No, that wasn´t right, there was something there already. And so she wrote it down. Her pen created its own rhythm. And she sunk deeper into the world that was growing in front of her. Then came time for contimplation. It was one thing to let the words flow freely, but that was not all. Writing, she thought, was a conflict... No, writing was a friendly competition. There were phases of feeling and there was time for thinking. The feeleing one was an idealist, the thinker a realist. The feeling one wanted to take her by the hand and lead her, help her ease into the dream of what her creation itself wanted to be. The thinker handed her a lantern, to help her see, yet nothing could hide from its light. If there was an impurity, the thinker would not rest until she found a way around it. And so she had to bid farewell to little pieces of her artpiece, rephrase, reframe, reinvent... But soon, the feeling one was back and she sunk back into her world. A world that would one day be an inspiration for someone. That would sweeten the day of a stranger she would never meet. And maybe it would make the stranger be visited by the feeling one and the thinker. And maybe the stranger will then create his own little world
"Nothing in this world is more dangerous than imagination?" "Why would you way that?" "Because it has no limits. No boundaries." "Youre wrong there is something mor dangerous" "And that would be..." "A writer" "Why?" "Because he uses it"
*sees title* *immediately jumps to comments* "oh hell, guess I'm doing this now" A time ago, there was a person with a great, large book; this book, though as impossible as it may be, contained every story ever conceived. The story of great authors and poets, the tales of powerful gladiators and skilled soldiers. Every single story ever, in any language one would need to read it in. The writer's words flowed and took to the ears as if some fantastical force that uplifted and inspired those around it. The stories detailed everything that had and was yet to come, from success to successors, from the works to their workers, the starved and the starving, the wars and those warring, the last few dying breaths of a child devastated by the cruel stroke of fate that took its toll, wondering what monster above could have done this; what twisted, dark mind could fabricate such a horror. The writer's quill was worn down and blackened, decayed over its several millennia of usage. The writer's hands raw and bony, tearing their own skin in movement. His book echoed screams and whispers of a pitch black, ever expansive shadow; even the light it knew was diligent of its eventual decline into shadow. The Universe was born in light, so it would be fitting it end in darkness. The writer knew eventually he'd close his book. Fin
Im in my bed, listening with my phone. Im starting to feel the mood, the atmosphere, the power of this song.. and then BOOM an Ad for some shit with horrible music. And then the song IS Back, i need some Time to be in, im starting to appreciate again, i feel it.. and BOOM, an other ad. Again and again. Thats horrible. Its like being in a huge market place and being haraced by hundreds of ads. I cant deal with that
A 47 minute Lucas King piece? Why yes please. I will edit my own writer's thoughts into here eventually, right now I've just begun to listen and appreciate. Edit: As a logophile, writing is cathartic. Writing is a way to express my thoughts in a way I could never do in person. I'm the type who can't sleep and constantly replays conversations, moments, memories in my mind pondering the dangerous thoughts of what I could've or should've done or said differently. It can be tormenting. The process of transcribing that mental turmoil, those endless emotions, into readable, tangible words and then re-reading and editing them into expressing as accurately as possible how you truly feel is not only a relief - a feeling of sanity, of clarity - it's essential. We are all different, we all struggle, we all cope and feel alone and need to express ourselves at some point (even if you have low self-esteem like me and tell yourself you deserve to be alone and unheard and misunderstood). Writing, for me, is a remedy for that feeling. I stutter through my feelings, I feel trapped or blinded or like a cornered animal sometimes in real conversations. Emotions, and the vulnerability behind truly showing them, can be hard to trust people with. Usage of words, writing, refining your thoughts, feelings, fears, desires, you name it - is therapeutic. Communication is a beautiful, powerful thing. We all need it. I know. As always, thank you Mr. King. This is an incredible, beautiful piece. I enjoyed every second of it. I started listening while playing a game on Steam but quickly closed the game and spent most of the song in silent appreciation with my eyes closed. Music, I must say, is my other therapy. Thank you. And to anyone who has read my repetitive droning so far, thank you as well and I wish you the best. Sincerely, another struggling human
El escritor y su talento El talento lo había abandonado a la deriva. Igual que un naufragado, yacia el escritor buscando aquella chispa que una vez lo ayudó a elevarse. No podía ser un escritor sin un talento que lo respaldara. Su mente se había convertido en una habitación vacua en la que solo quedaron fantasmas de mejores tiempos. Siguió arrastrándose por la orilla. El olor a arena lo embriagó. ¿Por qué lo había abandonado? Solía juguetar con ella en su juventud mientras moldeaban novelas juntos, solían amarse y dibujar mundos. Pero ahora que se había ido, no era más que un simple escritor sin talento. Continúo en su búsqueda, buscándo a aquella piedra preciosa en la arena. Lo continuaría haciendo sin saber que el talento solo existía en su mente. Fin I'm spanish writer amauter so.. ^^ Thanks for this piece. It' inspiring! That's the best kind of art. The music that can inspire other art like writing or drawing. I really admire you!
The words flooded the page. Their inky black letters littering the paper. One by one he wrote them out. Slowly but surely. Even when his arm grew tired and his hand began to bleed. He never quit. He couldn't. He was compelled to continue. What was he writing about? Even he didnt know. All he knew was he couldnt stop. For if he did, she would die. He had to get every thing perfect. Down to the last detail. He dissected the girl. Pulling her apart and putting her back together. He tried to make her from different materials, different words, but to no avail. Maybe it was the ink. Maybe that was the reason why he couldn't get her right. Why his character was just lifeless collections of words. Maybe he should use something else, something thicker. Something that once held her life. He went back to the table and began pulling her apart once again. Collecting what he needed, before begining to put her back together. He sat down once again and began to write. It was working. Finally. He could see as his character began to come to life on the page. The words soaking through into the paper. But it wasn't enough. She still wasn't alive enough. An idea struck him. Maybe. Just maybe. Yes. It just might work. He stood up from his desk and began work right away. Cutting her apart and reworking them to fit. After hours of work he finally had it. He stepped into the suit of flesh he had created. Not caring for the bones discarded around the room. Nor the blood that now covered his body. He had done it. He had stepped into her shoes. He learned. And he brought her to life.
I'm just going to say, that I've heard the song nonstop since I found it. First, because it make me feel like I'm the protagonist of a tragic story. Second, because its perfect for background music to listen to while studying.
I was looking for something to write to on your channel just this morning holy shit. And it’s so perfect too, because I’m exploring a concept in my writing that might seem interesting to you. It has different names and spelling but in my country it’s called Bangungot or nightmare death or sleep death. People with no prior complications or conditions just die in their sleep. Some say that they confessed experiencing nightmares days before, some say, the victims seemed fine. Either way no one has figured it out, no one really knows how or why they die.
THE WRITER It's Sunday. It's raining outside. The atmosphere is melancholic. Downstairs the writer's parents are yelling at each other. The boy listens to Lucas king's 'writer' video trying to ignore his parents and his cruel reality. He wants another place to leave. A better one. With the pencil at his hand and a notebook ready to be filled the young writer starts to write. He writes for hours. Ignoring the rest of the world. It's only him, the pencil and the notebook. He writes about a girl, a girl that's homeless. He makes her feel pain. A lot of pain. He gives her his pain with a smile at his face. As she cries, he laughs at himself for his accomplishment. He created a character. A character with all his pain. He continued to write about her for weeks. He didn't sleep anymore. He couldn't do anything else. 'if I leave this world, I will go back to my misery' he shouted at himself when he was getting tired. Page after page, chapter after chapter, he had created a masterpiece. He was at the last paragraph. He wrote that the girl died. After that, he goes downstairs after so much time. He walks above his parent' s dead bodies. He goes to the kitchen. He takes a knife and kills himself. I am the girl from his story, the dead one. He made me be burned alive, he let me be raped, he let me be thirsty, hungry. He made me go to hell. That's my revenge
"who are you?" is a question ive been asked many times. By my own shadows criticizing my every thought and feeling. They shine their darkness down on me in contempt when they receive no awnser But i have one that i keep to myself, the real ugly truth that i keep away from the darkness for it will consume me, shall it find out. i am no one, i am everything i am darkness, i am light i am love and i am hate i belong nowhere yet, thats how i know it must be for if it was different i would have ceased to be.
This music makes me think of spirits dancing in spite of all the things done to them to make them stop dancing. For some reason, I believe dancing is one of the things our spirits do naturally, without a step ever being missed, without a beat ever being slightly off.
The world is filled with hatred I'm willing to escape I see a field of bodies From filled with blood landscape The world is filled with hunger And it can bring to rather A murder or cannibalism Oh Lord, Oh Heaven's sake It lures us down, like vipers, Into the pit of hell We're drowning in this chaos, like in the deeps of well I'm willing to escape it My mind just wants to live My body turns to monstrous 'Cuz my soul wants to feed...
He held his hand gently over the paper, moving letter to letter, quivering whilst hovering above the paper. The door creaks as he writes the last letter, his mother enters in horror. As the ink stains his skin. making its way to his neck. He gasps for air pulling the cords, the sheets, everything. But little did he know, they would not help, for they heard his plea, and they knew this was his own demise. as he lay struggling to breath, he felt the tears of his mother hitting the soil as if he had become one with earth. The strangest part for him was seeing his mother cry at all, for he had never felt that love she had until this very moment. He never noticed he wasn't in his room, but outside for that wasn't what he cared for. He had just learned his mother did care for him. Maybe he was the problem he thought, maybe he needed to focus on her and not the others. For the first time ever, he felt an ache in his chest, swelling from the tears that had rushed out. He wanted the warmth of a hug, he felt like he was suffocating on guilt. Then he opened his eyes, he felt the ache in his chest again his eyes felt swollen as well just as they did when he learned his mother had cared for him. The only difference was his eyes had no tears, they were bruised, and his chest ached too painfully, he looked around at the sight of his sister laying cold next to him. As a man ran out the door calling for his mother, she entered with more men saying, "since she looks like that you can keep her but that's for an extra thousand." He never realized what she was doing, but he didn't care since he finally got to feel that "warmth" he always wanted. But instead, it was with these men, always playing "those games" if only he had noticed sooner, he would have realized "that" wasn't love.
I dont want to think or believe because thats my true enemy Whatever i believe i dont think whatever i think i try to believe But when i believe i think or do i think i believe When i think oh thats when the true darkness comes from inside No no not the darkness in my soul but the darkness from my mind Could this darkness be another part of me warning me preparing me for what is to come Or is this darkness just be me hiding away waiting for the perfect moment to strike As if its a game of predator vs prey am i pray pretending to be a predator or am i a predator pretending i am prey No not to hurt them but to help them but helping them is hurting them Is that the true reason i try to help others is so i can suck in their pain to fuel my flame Or to take it all away so they can feel that pain again Not in a few days no But maybe when im not there in a few years Oh well thats their debt to bare Is this sickening to hear or do you realize what im trying to say Now now dont think too hard Here lets play a few games of cards and i will explain while we play So your pain is it cold or hot maybe so hot you start to sweat then all of a sudden so cold that it freezes your tears Or maybe you dont feel hot or cold just the dark abyss of life this life that no you did not choose for if you chose life would be better maybe you could feel but you did choose this life this road you are still walking on many cars have past going very fast but you dont feel the wind or the breeze you once felt before the hand was delt A game of blackjack you played you got 21 your first game yay As your driving down the road you used to follow You see a man lurking in the shadows You stop to see what this darkness could be As you get out of your beautiful shiny car no dent nor scratch free of charge of course I gift that your loved ones gave to you When you get close as close as you could be a friendly face Says these words you will never forget you dont know why Until you die For these words are unknown They are commonly said As you take one final last step to touch this darkness that you have never felt That same friendly face that appeared before Saying more words but words you can understand Beware for when there is light there is darkness light is as simple as it is made out to be For it is what you want to believe The darkness my friend is the land of the dammed Ones who walk this path will never come back But if they do the pain will never grow again Until of course you play their game Now you dont know what this means but aren't i playing a game of cards Is this the game the friendly man sang not to play But too late now the cards are delt A simple 5 and king you hold A simple 15 you say fold No no wrong game my friend This is blackjack Now answer this hit or stand Hitting will give you another card you may get a 10 or a nine maybe a simple 5 Standing will end your turn Then ill have those same choices unless i get a 21 you see i haven't picked up and looked at my cards Now hit or stand risk it all for the chance to win or stand and see what the cards hold within That is for you to decide i would stand if it were me But this is you i like to see the whole table and everything that could possibly be Again this is you your decision you can win or lose either way so what will you say Hit? Or stay?
The Light Grasp with all your might For this good light is fleeting Restrict this foul darkness Do not welcome the darkness Strive with all your might to stay within the light For the darkness is constant Yet this fine light is infinitesimal when compared to it Reject this foul darkness Never let it enter For it will linger Seek the light with all your might For this good light is fleeting
time flew like it's commitment, holding that hand I understood it's essence just when it left all to find something else in another realm I Understood his Presence when he wasn't there to hear my Last Word that shall never end.....
@Greco-Italian Mapper bro it was a joke... i already know what ur talking about cause i'm 16 and i passed the last 4 years dealing with depression, suicidal thoughts, and a lot of other stuff that nobody gives a fuck about.
There inside the nameless void that once was my sanity and life washing away, all of what I was forever forgotten, nothing mattered for that I wouldn’t be remembered, as everything is dead already. The everlasting quiet and solemn noise reverberating as I just play a final piece knowing that at least inside such an hour of my final and desperate attempt of a grab for falling hope forever gliding, I sit on with my hands but now figures without a name moving on the piano that is now turned to a extension of what is left of who is playing, I feel myself going as the piano reverberates and echos out into the unfathomable abyss, soon whilst the music plays inside quick succession tears falling but hitting a ground no longer there, all begins to fade as but the final showance of humans and creations so beautiful finally fizzle out, now leading to a abyss where the cries of lovers, the laughs of children, the crackle of guns, and the horns of trumpets forever silent, forever dead, the only thing left but the silent slumber of what once was all who walked on a planet forever forgotten.
I have a thousand stories in my head he said and smirked. He considered himself a writer. He came closer and buy me a drink. Two strangers meeting in a bar. Not much of an original story. Later that night, when I opened his skull, I swear, I found nothing in there.
Heavy synth or vocal heavy music often distracts my writing but ambient helps it, piano and soft orchestra don't and neither does jazz, real jazz. A lot of music is good for writing because it enables the mind without clouding or interrupting thoughts. Intrusion really is the greatest enemy of the writer.
Needless to say, there's always a "writer" to a story. Reading a book is like looking at a different world, you can observe it as it go on. But as every story has it own "end", so does our own. Every story starts as an idea, and that idea grows to a concept, to a plot, and finally, a story. A "writer" has the power to manipulate the story, and it can do it in ways unimaginable to the characters to its story. A story is never perfect, because it changes constantly. If the "writer" gets fed up with the story, it may change it, abandon it, or in a worse case scenario, completely erase it. But what happens to those characters of the erased story? and what happens if the "writer" liked the story? The "writer" is the only one who can decide on the matter, for one who creates has power over the creation.
I raised a cracked glass, it filled with whisky, as i was alone in my room, i drank i drank, until the glass was empty, as i grabbed the bottle i had i hid, it was nearly empty. I looked into the emtpy glass seeing my own reflection, thinking should i really be doing this? I didnt like the answer i reached, so i emptied the rest of the bottle into my glass. I raised the glass again, refusing to drink i let the glass go, as the glass hit the ground it smashed into pieces, I saw myself in the reflection of the pieces, realising I was the same, just several pieces badly put together, trying to fix myself i grabbed the pieces left, knowing i was going to break further, i gripped tight as blood fell down to the floor, looking at my hand seeing the prettiest shade of red, the most peaceful feeling immersed from me.
I write and I write... but no words stay. Only beings that appear from out of nowhere. First a man, then a woman. I write and I write... but no words stay. Only beings that appear from out of nowhere. There are billions of them now. I write and I write... ...what have I done?
очень сложное произведение, навевает аналогию с поздними фортепианными сонатами Бетховена. Это уровень высокой классики, не ширпотреба a very complex piece, it evokes an analogy with Beethoven's late piano sonatas. This is the level of high classics, not consumer goods
Under the deep ocean in a quaint house, he wrote . . . All he wrote was the word "The". His pet snail looked at him and slithered away. He then went to go sleep. That's it.
The Writer. There is an infinite white room where I pass my existence. It does not have any object or the slightest light, but it is still possible to see. This may be called the vacuum, others may say it is life after death, heaven or hell. But honestly it doesn't matter. It really doesn't matter. That's when he called me to a conversation. Wait, where am I? - You said. Oh, it's you. We were waiting for you. - I told you. Who are you? And where are you? Whoever you want me to be. And wherever you want to be. What do you mean? It's simple, I am who I am, and I can be who you plan to be. Is this a joke? You still don't understand, do you? It just doesn't get into your head. I may not know how you look, but I know you exist. But you're not to blame - I think to myself. Ok, it seems that I'm not getting enough information to formulate an answer to my questions. Could you tell me how I can get out of this place? - You ask. It's hard for someone to get in here, but it's easy to access your exit. - I answer. Okay, and how can I leave this place? -There's a hidden key in this place, neon white, it's very visible. You look for the whole room, but strangely you don't find the key. The key is not here. - You affirm. In this white room it is impossible to see anything, but we still have time. Let's try to find it somewhere else. Where do you want to go? - I say. Do I at least have any option? This all seems much more confusing to me. Tell me where you want to go and I will guide you. You think for a while, looking frustrated. Okay, let's go to some house in a field, maybe there's something. You say it in a joking tone. But suddenly, the surroundings change. Everything is more colorful. Wait, this is the house? Yes, like you said. Right -You seem a little confused - I think the key is in the keychain. But where is the keychain? - I question Simple, at the entrance door. - You say. You walk towards the door, but without looking confused, as if you already know that place. The house is relatively large, with 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms, a living room along with the kitchen and a dining room next door. Ah, it was right here - you say with a smile on your face when you reach the key - now where is the exit? Probably in the back of the house. Let's go there. You usually go to the back of the house, but strangely there doesn't seem to be an end, like endless corridors typical of nightmares. After a while of walking, you begin to show signs of nervousness. Where exactly are we going? - You ask me, nervous. I can't say for sure, but you should know. What do you mean I should know? Do I look like a psychic? What do you think? I answer your question with another question of mine that makes you think for a while. What do you mean? When we came to this house, you knew exactly where the key was and mainly you knew the residence, even not knowing where you specifically are. It's true. - You agree. So tell me, where should we go? Let's go to the hall on the left. We go to the corridor on the left and miraculously we find the exit. When we open the door, we return to the white room. Really? Are we here again? Wasn't I supposed to go back to where I know I was there? It seems to be more difficult than I thought. What do you mean? You need something to get you out of here. What do you mean by that? You're stuck with something without chains, cell, or even threats or kidnapping. You just showed up here. Are you kidding me? Where am I then? You're in your own mind, you're imagining scenes, places, people, conversations... all in a chain reaction in a fluid way, looking like a real place. You're in your own head, but trapped in the custody of the writer. The writer created a white room where he could add his ideas and people to manipulate them and create an external entertainment, but he gave you his freedom; the freedom to create everything around you. But you are just an object in his hands. At any moment you will disappear, like me. But, who are you? I am that voice in your head that talks to yourself about what should and should not appear on paper leaves to soon become a book. You are the writer of your own story, but this voice can induce you to an alternative path, being it good or bad. This voice can also induce you to understand what happens around you. Exactly what happened in the house.... Yes, I induced you to a psychic to "writer" comparison, you knew the house because you had imagined it perfectly, consequently you knew it too. So I... Yeah, you will continue writing your own life script, but soon you will disappear in the void of the author's imagination, but their memory will be alive for some time. You will not be completely forgotten forever. So I hope. Little by little, I saw the room and you became dust, along with my existence.
![ละลาย (LALALYE) - DAOU PITTAYA ต้าห์อู๋ พิทยา [OFFICIAL MV]](http://i.ytimg.com/vi/wo6r9TgausI/mqdefault.jpg)
He wrote. Not as anything serious, just a hobby. He never showed anyone his work. But one day, his friend read over his shoulder.
“This is really good! Is there more?“
He looked up, staring into his friend‘s face for a good long moment.
“It‘s a secret.“
A confused look crossed his friend‘s face. He wasn‘t usually this secretive.
„Are you sure you can‘t tell me?“
He nodded.
“Very sure. I‘ll tell you when I‘m ready.“
Years passed, and still he wrote. Finally, one day, he came to his friend.
“I‘m ready to share my story.“
Together they sat on the sofa, and his friend opened the old notebook that he‘d seen his companion write in all those years ago. The pages were soft and covered in revisions in his friend’s handwriting, past versions of the story blending together behind the finished product. And he read. He read the rest of the day and into the night. He read as the air outside grew crisp and the skies became clear. He read as the sofa became a ship, and the walls opened into a starry sky. He read as they soared over stormy seas and dense forests, grand empires and small villages, immense battles and colorful fields. He read and read until he came to the last page and four very important words.
“The world is yours.“
He watched his friend in anticipation. Slowly, his friend looked up from the old notebook.
“Is it real?“
“As real as we want it to be.“
(Edited to clarify details)
This is just amazing
Beautifully penned.
love this xoxo
amazing
Wow... Please keep writing. Want to read more n more.. do you have your blog. Share with us.. love to read..
This is how my characters feel when they hear me say "I have an idea."
Iove this comment.
Oh no!
@@eliasbischoff176 rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrv
@@turtarazvan3205 u good?
As a writer, I relate to this immensly
The writer
an enigmatic fellow was he,
A quiet life kept he
Lost in a world of his own
Never truly was he alone
Page after Page of tales did he write
Never did he believe they were written right
As he had lived he would die
No one ever knowing why
For a quiet life did he live
A quiet death is all he received...
💥🧡🌟💢💯
He was sitting in the dark, his undeniable white and thin fingers cramping around his pen, trying to write down some letters a toddler would have drawn better .In silent hope that they may form words who would grow up to full phrases, he sat there stoic, silent some sharp tongue might say lethargic. He sat there now for hours, he sat there so long he couldn't even tell why he sat there, and after a long breathtaking moment he layed the pen next to the paper and began to cry.
He began to cry and to shout but those screams of Hopelessness and Despair have never been heard. A desperate laughter relieves him as he looks at his paper, no one might ever read the phrases he wrote , phrases of beauty and hope, phrases about things he never had. "No one would ever read it", he thought as he just threw the masterpiece of all written things in the junk. A kismet of so many words written with so much Passion but received with no love.
@@kyleroberts162 I am glad you enjoyed it
@@wilhelmvonpreussen Nice story, they writing is wonderful.
Lovely. Absolutely lovely.
The Poet and The Writer.
The Poet believed that no one would ever know their works, and so, despairing in the rain, they kept up their practice as hobby, nonetheless.
The Poet believed that no one would ever know their works; that is, until he met her.
The writer.
Out in the rain one night, notepad and pen in hand for catching inspiration, he strolled along the dreadful dark streets, writing a word here or there.
Then, out of the corner of his focus, He noticed an umbrella just as dark as his own, Leaned just as Akilter into a shoulder, on a bench he'd considered using. He looked at her, and saw himself and someone else, he observed in his unusual ways, untill he noticed she was doing the same, observing his every detail, his every creased shirt, habitual stance, or odd expression, learning as much about him as she could before conversing.
Just like he does.
He had a crazy thought as he saw her notepad. He hesitated, but then wondered if he'd ever get the chance again. He decided to do it.
Nervously, Jerkily, He shoved out his notepad for her to read.
She read, fascinated and intrigued, She held out her own, still reading. He accepted, and read the most brilliantly interesting and unique notes he could ever have imagined be as similar to his own as these were. They looked into each other's eyes, and wordlessly agreed.
The Poet and The Writer walked quietly down the rainy street, umbrellas side by side, taking notes, and pointing to inspirations, and showing the notes they'd taken, occasionally conversing on what they'd seen. For the rest of that night, they savored the company they gave each other.
On their ways home, The Poet and The Writer each were brimming with excitement at the inspiration they'd found with their new companion. It would be the beginning of their greatest works, each one thought.
The Poet and The Writer both Knew that they'd have to meet again.
Edit: Very well, I shall continue.
Part two.
Neither The Poet nor The Writer.
Tirelessly The Poet and The Writer worked; Productive Night after tired morning, Focusing, Refining, capturing the essence they had gathered. Line after line, Day after week they refined; Neither realizing what they had truly created untill it had taken shape;
He had written a masterwork of metaphor and simile, a work of stumbling upon love and being swept away by it; She had written a magnificent short story of Love finding you, carrying you Jerkily, awkwardly, happily through dark nights and darker thoughts.
Neither The Poet nor The Writer had truly realized what had happened untill their masterworks had been completed. The Poet and The Writer had discovered the topic of their great works that night in the rain, weeks ago by now.
She cursed her stupidity, they'd agreed to meet again. He Cursed his manic work ethic, he should have been back to that bench again by now.
Neither the Poet nor The Writer celebrated the completion of their great works that night, they were both glum, and were it not for the quality of their works, would have shredded them in despair; in getting caught in their work, The Poet and The Writer had forsaken the only thing that brought them there.
Neither The Poet nor The writer Would ever Know Love Again.
Or so they thought.
Author's Note: Tomorrow The Story ends.
Or So I thought. An Author does not control their story, Quite the opposite, in fact. So I shall surf this flood of story tonight.
Part Three: The Story.
The Poet and The Writer both left their houses that evening, the somber rains their only friend; a constant reminder of the glumness that fills their hearts, and sours their works to dreadful tales of dark nights and darker thoughts. Their achievement at making great pieces drowned in the demons they found in the rain.
Untill She saw herself again, notepad glumly under arm. And He saw himself on the street, Umbrella Akilter, Shoulders down.
The Poet and The Writer saw they're own sadness in each other, and knew what had happened.
Cautiously, fearfully, They approached each other. Closer, He cautiously stepped. Closer, She gently, Shyly reached. Face to face, They saw in each other's eyes the desire, The careful emotion that couldn't be spoken, yet had to be expressed with mouth. At that joyous, Tearful moment, They launched their faces together, and revelled in this divine expression of that which they had finally, truly known.
Love.
She grabbed his hand, A gesture that meant more than she thought it would; but she didn't care. Rosy-Cheeked, She ran them to her house. Her study. As he stood in awe, and admiration, She shoved delicate folder after secure satchel into his arms. Gathering All she could, She opened her door, smiling, gesturing him to lead. And Grinning wildly, He took her hand and gently led her, Running carefully to his Home.
Dried off, in his workspace, She was fascinated and Awed. As He prompted Her to action, The Writer and The Poet pulled sheet after note after booklet of her works from Her Satchels and His Jackets, and Wordlessly, They worked, assembling paragraph after line, in a dance of Creation and discovery, The Poet and The Writer worked in perfect, yet imperfect, destined, Human Harmony, until it had begun.
Their Greatest work had a beginning. It was alive! It Had to be told, it screamed in possibility, it grew naturally from themselves.
It was _The Story._
Looking into each other's eyes again, both hands intertwined; their happiness rose between them, The breaths increasing in frequency and warmth, and Love. Fascination, Joy, and Freedom Flowed around them. And Pressed together, Down they went to the floor.
Sheets and Scraps fluttered around and beneath them in a majestic dance of Joy and Love. They worried not about what scraps they might Lose, they had all the inspiration the might ever Need in front of, and around them.
This would not be the last night of their passion.
The Authors Awoke, and made breakfast. And spoke. And learned of each other.
The Authors were happy. For in each other, They had found and Created;
*_The Story._*
I was wondering if you could continue? This is such a wonderful story
I have to agree, this is amazing, and I'd love to read more!
This is a wonderful piece of work, keep it up.
@@leinsb.4908 It is Done.
While The Story to be told by The Poet and The Writer has just begun,
The short story I told is ended.
@@monsterno.definablenever.3484 I know, what I meant was continue to write stories like this, it was wonderful.
Beware, fellow reader!
In this comment section, many writers will emerge!
You may proceed with caution.
And then right below this comment
You mean Excitement.
@ㅤ how did u do the blank comment 😱
@@jaysonleosoliman4641 white avatar picture, blank text for a name and blank text for the comment.
@@gianlucamyslimi1739 wait, shouldn't the profile be transparent too O_O
Me: Looking for background music to finish writing an essay.
TH-cam Bell: Lucas King's The Writer
Same
She writes to express,
She writes to hide,
She writes to live,
She writes to die,
She writes to ponder,
She writes to forget,
She writes for love,
She writes for hate,
She writes because of happiness,
She writes because of loneliness,
She writes because of joy,
She writes because of sorrow.
I write to show that we are everything and nothing.
Fb?
Just a reminder that you should delete this comment.
to write, or to listen, that is the question
Ah, to write, is to listen.
Danial Abbas: 👽🖎📰✍La cuestión es la siguiente; piensas, escribes, y sueñas que con pocas palabras han de entender.📝💻⌨🖱📸🎵🖒
Your timing is just perfect
“He wrote....”
-People in the comment section
This is really funny because it's right after Aндреј's comment. :)
He wrote. Not as anything serious, just as a hobby. One day his friend read over his shoulder and said "Hey this is really good."
But then he took his schizophrenia medication. His friend disappeared, and he realized that what he had been writing was actually just a youtube comment under a video of some guy's recent vacation to Mexico. It contained an incoherent rant about how the government and one of his neighbors were working together to spy on him with paper
LMAO
I read the comment above starting with the same thing and was about to go off about you copying and then read the rest. amazing
yooo isnt this uhhh what it called Kafkaesque?
My buddy the Devil knows you, Bigfoot. He speaks well of you. I am not disappointed.
IT'S YOU
@@mandine100 yes?
He was sitting in the dark, his undeniable white and thin fingers cramping around his pen, trying to write down some letters a toddler would have drawn better .In silent hope that they may form words which would grow up to full phrases, he sat there stoic, silent some sharp tongue might say lethargic. He sat there now for hours, he sat there so long he couldn't even tell why he sat there, and after a long breathtaking moment he layed the pen next to the paper and began to cry.
He began to cry and to shout but those screams of Hopelessness and Despair have never been heard. A desperate laughter relieves him as he looks at his paper, no one might ever read the phrases he wrote , phrases of beauty and hope, phrases about things he never had. "No one would ever read it", he thought as he just threw the masterpiece of all written things in the junk. A kismet of so many words written with so much Passion but received with no love.
Please forgive me my English mistakes if there are some. English isn't my mother tongue and I tried to just pick up the vibe.
It's great❤️
You speak better than many English speakers I've met, great job.
Me: stressing out with exams and wishing any background music, that I didn't listen to, appeared
TH-cam Notifications: *Lucas King - The writer*
Me: *YEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA*
Never have I even surpassed 25 likes in a comment. Thank you all :o!
Edit: 50 likes?! My god i feel somehow surprised xD
@@ImScor327 100
I've recently been trying to write my first full novel, a dark fantasy story revolving around a manipulative and intelligent noble, and your music is always great to listen to in the background, keep up the great work my man
My thoughts are my companions.
My dreams are my home.
My words are my hopes.
My pen is my soul.
Take my ideas, Im alone.
Take my dreams, Im lost.
Take my words, Im bleak.
Take my pen, I am inanimate.
One can handle loneliness,
One can find a new path to walk upon,
One can believe in something, or someone else.
But no one can replace the pen.
What good is a writer, without a *soul?*
I really loved that.
I've looked at some of your other comments, your are unique in a way I can describe but refuse to. Tell me, you feel powerful without the power?
Furkan Efe: 👽✒saludos desde cancun; escribir el arte del pensamiento plasmado en hojas las cuales se han convertido en pixeles, los cuales sin llegar a enfadarte, podrás escribir la nitidez de tus pasiones con ayuda de tus sueños y un poco de comprensión🖎📝✍🎵📸💻⌨🖱📚📰
Use a pencil.
Man, all my life I have tried to write a complete novel, but I always give up, but I've been writing a story for 4 months, and your music is what keeps me writing, inspires me, and if it weren't for you, by Peter Grundy, Adrian Von Ziegler, and Nox Arcana, I would have already thrown my project overboard, thank you very much for your music.
Just remember to get the first drafts written out before the rewrites it's allowed to be bad as it's only the firsts
just focus on getting stuff written down for the first drafts
And any holes you do find are just opportunities to improve the story for the better.
@@ahdhwjdue8362 Thanks for the info, I'll keep it in mind!
@@GhostFilmsStudio you're welcome.
(Also if you're abit lost concept wise
I recommend the anatomy of story by John truby)
Writers, poets and this mysterious music are certainly beacons of hope in this world.
A reminder to be grateful for what we possess and not envy.
A reminiscence to cherish experiences and not-traps of enmity.
A recollection of that which we uphold dearly...
Merely grasping this does not require an epiphany,
but courage and prudence in bedlam and mental atrophy.
Where are my writing buddies? Hands up!
Now put them down again and keep writing!
Hell yeah!!!
They're probably all busy slamming out short stories elsewhere in the comments section.
I actually just finished my ritual of doing so... and then taping my keyboard back together because I'm not so good at the "short" part. lol
Hahaha!! I empathize. ✋
Right here
Right here.
No Enemies by Charles McKay
"You have no enemies, you say?
Alas! my friend, the boast is poor;
He who has mingled in the fray
Of duty, that the brave endure,
Must have made foes! If you have none,
Small is the work that you have done.
You’ve hit no traitor on the hip,
You’ve dashed no cup from perjured lip,
You’ve never turned the wrong to right,
You’ve been a coward in the fight."
Is it just me or should this be read with a Scottish accent?
I know you guys are making a joke out of all the writers here, but pretty sure that's just how strong Lucas' songs are.
You just hear the melodies and they IMMEDIATELY spark an image of something to a writer's head, perhaps a dark tale, a dark mind, just something entirely else, but Lucas' songs are just this much steeped in emotion, can we just appreciate that? Weiters or not, it's impressive to make music this expressive.
Why does this barely have 25k views?
I feel like I found one of the hidden gems of TH-cam.
bruh his videos be STAYING a hidden gem, I found his channel like years ago and he still usually gets only this amount of views. its a shame though because his compositions are so great.
TH-cam algorithm prevents music from being recommended a lot in favor of mainstream content. LK used to get like 50-60k views years ago. And let's not forget, his dark music comps have gotten a mil. It sucks because hes such a talented composer too.
The heroes of a story very often have to fight an individual, an entity, a macabre source threatening their happiness or that of the society in which they live.
It is quite rare that they fail, and when the evil is defeated, they celebrate their victory in the ignorance that the real antagonist of a story is the writer himself.
_Soooo,_ God is the villain then?
* goes to write another poem *
* sees the update in TH-cam *
* reads the name*
Heart: ... Let's go, sis. We're on time tight now
I have no idea why seeing this made me so happy as someone who is a writer
Só Eu Sinto?
É como uma tempestade,Horas antes tudo tão tranquilo, relações quentes e afetuosas é o que transparece.Parece que quando a tempestade se forma tudo vem a tona a vontade de estar sozinho(a) é o que predomina e com ela vem acompanhado uma angústia que rasga a garganta,relações quentes se tornam cada vez mais frias, fazendo com que esteja presente em falas e olhares.A única coisa que cabe e predomina nesse ambiente espinhoso são as músicas tristes,ou horrososas,até o certo ponto que você se isola tanto que as coisas boas começam a voltar
devagarzinho.A tempestade passa,tudo fica bem,mas no fundo,algo lhe indicando que em breve ela voltará!
Hell yeah I'm gonna listen to this when I do writing later today ✨
That's incredible. I'm a brazilian writer, and this song is ideal for this hot summer night, when I'm organazing the next plots for my caracters.
In direct translation, the novel is named Suicidals under Neons.
Sounds interesting!
In the shadows
from the world of night
she held her pen,
what should she write?
Her stance was pensive
Her shoulders hunched
She felt defensive
She would not run.
Instead she wrote,
on an empty page,
how people spoke,
and how they played.
This is a masterpiece, thank you Sir Lucas!
Ah another one to add to the library. Wonderful.
Writer writer of the night
With your pages turning bright
and when you read them your mind blow
and then exclame: "just one more row!"
In a lovely street of the life
you can write what tells the soul
But in a lonely street of the heart
Your beatings give you their own
Dark and inspiring! Love it, thx Luke 💜
I wrote a poem in the comments of "the poet" so...
(Before we begin, I hope this series continues and includes "the artist" and most importantly to me "the philosopher")
The candle´s light danced, vitalised by the passion of the hand, running across the paper. Each stroke of the pen, each line of ink, added a new piece to the puzzle. Each sentence, scribbled in the hand´s desperate attempt to keep up with the mind lost so deep in thought, gives... life. And yet the writer did not play god. She knew, more than she knew anything she ever learned, that the scene in her mind was true. Not fact, but true. But she was not the god of the world she created. Had she been, she could have ensured her creation´s good fortune. Had she been, she would be responsible for them. But she coiuld barely controll their actions, so how could she ever be held acountable?
She noted, barely, how she took a new piece of paper. A new chance, a new... tabula rasa? No, that wasn´t right, there was something there already. And so she wrote it down. Her pen created its own rhythm. And she sunk deeper into the world that was growing in front of her.
Then came time for contimplation. It was one thing to let the words flow freely, but that was not all. Writing, she thought, was a conflict... No, writing was a friendly competition. There were phases of feeling and there was time for thinking. The feeleing one was an idealist, the thinker a realist. The feeling one wanted to take her by the hand and lead her, help her ease into the dream of what her creation itself wanted to be. The thinker handed her a lantern, to help her see, yet nothing could hide from its light. If there was an impurity, the thinker would not rest until she found a way around it.
And so she had to bid farewell to little pieces of her artpiece, rephrase, reframe, reinvent...
But soon, the feeling one was back and she sunk back into her world. A world that would one day be an inspiration for someone. That would sweeten the day of a stranger she would never meet. And maybe it would make the stranger be visited by the feeling one and the thinker. And maybe the stranger will then create his own little world
"Nothing in this world is more dangerous than imagination?"
"Why would you way that?"
"Because it has no limits. No boundaries."
"Youre wrong there is something mor dangerous"
"And that would be..."
"A writer"
"Why?"
"Because he uses it"
*sees title*
*immediately jumps to comments*
"oh hell, guess I'm doing this now"
A time ago, there was a person with a great, large book; this book, though as impossible as it may be, contained every story ever conceived. The story of great authors and poets, the tales of powerful gladiators and skilled soldiers. Every single story ever, in any language one would need to read it in. The writer's words flowed and took to the ears as if some fantastical force that uplifted and inspired those around it.
The stories detailed everything that had and was yet to come, from success to successors, from the works to their workers, the starved and the starving, the wars and those warring, the last few dying breaths of a child devastated by the cruel stroke of fate that took its toll, wondering what monster above could have done this; what twisted, dark mind could fabricate such a horror.
The writer's quill was worn down and blackened, decayed over its several millennia of usage. The writer's hands raw and bony, tearing their own skin in movement. His book echoed screams and whispers of a pitch black, ever expansive shadow; even the light it knew was diligent of its eventual decline into shadow. The Universe was born in light, so it would be fitting it end in darkness. The writer knew eventually he'd close his book.
Fin
Im in my bed, listening with my phone. Im starting to feel the mood, the atmosphere, the power of this song.. and then BOOM an Ad for some shit with horrible music.
And then the song IS Back, i need some Time to be in, im starting to appreciate again, i feel it.. and BOOM, an other ad. Again and again.
Thats horrible. Its like being in a huge market place and being haraced by hundreds of ads. I cant deal with that
Skip to the end, then replay the video
@@queenterraofarchrist344 that doesn't work anymore
Me realizing my brilliant idea is actually a dumb idea that's been done a dozen times
Masterpiece, as always. Thank You!
A 47 minute Lucas King piece? Why yes please.
I will edit my own writer's thoughts into here eventually, right now I've just begun to listen and appreciate.
Edit: As a logophile, writing is cathartic. Writing is a way to express my thoughts in a way I could never do in person. I'm the type who can't sleep and constantly replays conversations, moments, memories in my mind pondering the dangerous thoughts of what I could've or should've done or said differently. It can be tormenting. The process of transcribing that mental turmoil, those endless emotions, into readable, tangible words and then re-reading and editing them into expressing as accurately as possible how you truly feel is not only a relief - a feeling of sanity, of clarity - it's essential. We are all different, we all struggle, we all cope and feel alone and need to express ourselves at some point (even if you have low self-esteem like me and tell yourself you deserve to be alone and unheard and misunderstood). Writing, for me, is a remedy for that feeling. I stutter through my feelings, I feel trapped or blinded or like a cornered animal sometimes in real conversations. Emotions, and the vulnerability behind truly showing them, can be hard to trust people with. Usage of words, writing, refining your thoughts, feelings, fears, desires, you name it - is therapeutic. Communication is a beautiful, powerful thing. We all need it. I know.
As always, thank you Mr. King. This is an incredible, beautiful piece. I enjoyed every second of it. I started listening while playing a game on Steam but quickly closed the game and spent most of the song in silent appreciation with my eyes closed. Music, I must say, is my other therapy. Thank you.
And to anyone who has read my repetitive droning so far, thank you as well and I wish you the best.
Sincerely, another struggling human
El escritor y su talento
El talento lo había abandonado a la deriva. Igual que un naufragado, yacia el escritor buscando aquella chispa que una vez lo ayudó a elevarse. No podía ser un escritor sin un talento que lo respaldara. Su mente se había convertido en una habitación vacua en la que solo quedaron fantasmas de mejores tiempos. Siguió arrastrándose por la orilla. El olor a arena lo embriagó. ¿Por qué lo había abandonado? Solía juguetar con ella en su juventud mientras moldeaban novelas juntos, solían amarse y dibujar mundos. Pero ahora que se había ido, no era más que un simple escritor sin talento. Continúo en su búsqueda, buscándo a aquella piedra preciosa en la arena. Lo continuaría haciendo sin saber que el talento solo existía en su mente.
Fin
I'm spanish writer amauter so.. ^^ Thanks for this piece. It' inspiring! That's the best kind of art. The music that can inspire other art like writing or drawing. I really admire you!
Just amazing.
Yes, this is exactly what needs to be playing for the scenes in my mind.
His music does that to me too
Beautiful music
Art that inspires art and gives us a thousand reflections. I'm glad I discovered this.
Ah yes, another lovely video to work to.
Love your work Lucas! Listening to this now while working this morning. Best way to start the day ever : )
The words flooded the page. Their inky black letters littering the paper. One by one he wrote them out. Slowly but surely.
Even when his arm grew tired and his hand began to bleed. He never quit. He couldn't. He was compelled to continue. What was he writing about? Even he didnt know. All he knew was he couldnt stop. For if he did, she would die.
He had to get every thing perfect. Down to the last detail. He dissected the girl. Pulling her apart and putting her back together. He tried to make her from different materials, different words, but to no avail.
Maybe it was the ink. Maybe that was the reason why he couldn't get her right. Why his character was just lifeless collections of words. Maybe he should use something else, something thicker. Something that once held her life.
He went back to the table and began pulling her apart once again. Collecting what he needed, before begining to put her back together. He sat down once again and began to write.
It was working. Finally. He could see as his character began to come to life on the page. The words soaking through into the paper. But it wasn't enough. She still wasn't alive enough.
An idea struck him. Maybe. Just maybe. Yes. It just might work.
He stood up from his desk and began work right away. Cutting her apart and reworking them to fit. After hours of work he finally had it. He stepped into the suit of flesh he had created. Not caring for the bones discarded around the room. Nor the blood that now covered his body.
He had done it. He had stepped into her shoes. He learned. And he brought her to life.
I started yesterday writing about the Battles of the world for my book and this is perfect!
I'm just going to say, that I've heard the song nonstop since I found it. First, because it make me feel like I'm the protagonist of a tragic story. Second, because its perfect for background music to listen to while studying.
Beautiful
I was looking for something to write to on your channel just this morning holy shit. And it’s so perfect too, because I’m exploring a concept in my writing that might seem interesting to you. It has different names and spelling but in my country it’s called Bangungot or nightmare death or sleep death. People with no prior complications or conditions just die in their sleep. Some say that they confessed experiencing nightmares days before, some say, the victims seemed fine. Either way no one has figured it out, no one really knows how or why they die.
Woke up from the matrix 👁
I like image, that have some sad things what i like.
Your music well describes the image and everything that exists on the world
THE WRITER
It's Sunday. It's raining outside. The atmosphere is melancholic. Downstairs the writer's parents are yelling at each other. The boy listens to Lucas king's 'writer' video trying to ignore his parents and his cruel reality. He wants another place to leave. A better one. With the pencil at his hand and a notebook ready to be filled the young writer starts to write.
He writes for hours. Ignoring the rest of the world. It's only him, the pencil and the notebook. He writes about a girl, a girl that's homeless. He makes her feel pain. A lot of pain. He gives her his pain with a smile at his face. As she cries, he laughs at himself for his accomplishment. He created a character. A character with all his pain.
He continued to write about her for weeks. He didn't sleep anymore. He couldn't do anything else. 'if I leave this world, I will go back to my misery' he shouted at himself when he was getting tired. Page after page, chapter after chapter, he had created a masterpiece. He was at the last paragraph. He wrote that the girl died. After that, he goes downstairs after so much time. He walks above his parent' s dead bodies. He goes to the kitchen. He takes a knife and kills himself.
I am the girl from his story, the dead one. He made me be burned alive, he let me be raped, he let me be thirsty, hungry. He made me go to hell. That's my revenge
Спасибо вам, это очень красиво )
I really enjoy this community there is endless talent here 👏👏
"who are you?" is a question ive been asked many times. By my own shadows criticizing my every thought and feeling.
They shine their darkness down on me in contempt when they receive no awnser
But i have one that i keep to myself, the real ugly truth that i keep away from the darkness for it will consume me, shall it find out.
i am no one, i am everything
i am darkness, i am light
i am love and i am hate
i belong nowhere
yet, thats how i know it must be
for if it was different
i would have ceased to be.
This music makes me think of spirits dancing in spite of all the things done to them to make them stop dancing. For some reason, I believe dancing is one of the things our spirits do naturally, without a step ever being missed, without a beat ever being slightly off.
The world is filled with hatred
I'm willing to escape
I see a field of bodies
From filled with blood landscape
The world is filled with hunger
And it can bring to rather
A murder or cannibalism
Oh Lord, Oh Heaven's sake
It lures us down, like vipers, Into the pit of hell
We're drowning in this chaos, like in the deeps of well
I'm willing to escape it
My mind just wants to live
My body turns to monstrous
'Cuz my soul wants to feed...
Nice piece. Keep it up!
This is real nice
i writingmy poetas with lucas king's classical music always
Siempre que necesito inspiración, vengo a escuchar este video ❤️
writing my book while listening to this.
i love all the songs lucas post :)
The true twisted ones are the ones who create. Just as we create a world, we easily destroy the lives we create in it.
Your songs are awesome, I wish one day compose like you. Thank You!
Love your work! All of it. Really helps me focus and get into good mindsets for characters and other great things
You just make this while im reading misery, you’re a genius
This is amazing.
*Proceed to create a goddamn masterpiece book based only in the pencil i had in my left.*
They are all... witnessing.. Perfection....
It's nice that a song like this came out during NaNoWriMo! Love the music, always do! It's great to have in the background to help me focus.
He held his hand gently over the paper, moving letter to letter, quivering whilst hovering above the paper. The door creaks as he writes the last letter, his mother enters in horror. As the ink stains his skin. making its way to his neck. He gasps for air pulling the cords, the sheets, everything. But little did he know, they would not help, for they heard his plea, and they knew this was his own demise. as he lay struggling to breath, he felt the tears of his mother hitting the soil as if he had become one with earth. The strangest part for him was seeing his mother cry at all, for he had never felt that love she had until this very moment. He never noticed he wasn't in his room, but outside for that wasn't what he cared for. He had just learned his mother did care for him. Maybe he was the problem he thought, maybe he needed to focus on her and not the others. For the first time ever, he felt an ache in his chest, swelling from the tears that had rushed out. He wanted the warmth of a hug, he felt like he was suffocating on guilt. Then he opened his eyes, he felt the ache in his chest again his eyes felt swollen as well just as they did when he learned his mother had cared for him. The only difference was his eyes had no tears, they were bruised, and his chest ached too painfully, he looked around at the sight of his sister laying cold next to him. As a man ran out the door calling for his mother, she entered with more men saying, "since she looks like that you can keep her but that's for an extra thousand." He never realized what she was doing, but he didn't care since he finally got to feel that "warmth" he always wanted. But instead, it was with these men, always playing "those games" if only he had noticed sooner, he would have realized "that" wasn't love.
Superb, as always. Magnificent!
I LOVE IT
Nobody:
My weeb brain: *I WILL TAKE A POTATO CHIP AND EAT IT!!!*
Pfft, perfect
How does this comment hold any humor at all?
Sorry, I'm dumb.
I dont want to think or believe because thats my true enemy
Whatever i believe i dont think whatever i think i try to believe
But when i believe i think or do i think i believe
When i think oh thats when the true darkness comes from inside
No no not the darkness in my soul but the darkness from my mind
Could this darkness be another part of me warning me preparing me for what is to come
Or is this darkness just be me hiding away waiting for the perfect moment to strike
As if its a game of predator vs prey am i pray pretending to be a predator or am i a predator pretending i am prey
No not to hurt them but to help them but helping them is hurting them
Is that the true reason i try to help others is so i can suck in their pain to fuel my flame
Or to take it all away so they can feel that pain again
Not in a few days no
But maybe when im not there in a few years
Oh well thats their debt to bare
Is this sickening to hear or do you realize what im trying to say
Now now dont think too hard
Here lets play a few games of cards and i will explain while we play
So your pain is it cold or hot maybe so hot you start to sweat then all of a sudden so cold that it freezes your tears
Or maybe you dont feel hot or cold just the dark abyss of life this life that no you did not choose for if you chose life would be better maybe you could feel but you did choose this life this road you are still walking on many cars have past going very fast but you dont feel the wind or the breeze you once felt before the hand was delt
A game of blackjack you played you got 21 your first game yay
As your driving down the road you used to follow
You see a man lurking in the shadows
You stop to see what this darkness could be
As you get out of your beautiful shiny car no dent nor scratch free of charge of course
I gift that your loved ones gave to you
When you get close as close as you could be a friendly face
Says these words you will never forget you dont know why
Until you die
For these words are unknown
They are commonly said
As you take one final last step to touch this darkness that you have never felt
That same friendly face that appeared before
Saying more words but words you can understand
Beware for when there is light there is darkness light is as simple as it is made out to be
For it is what you want to believe
The darkness my friend is the land of the dammed
Ones who walk this path will never come back
But if they do the pain will never grow again
Until of course you play their game
Now you dont know what this means but aren't i playing a game of cards
Is this the game the friendly man sang not to play
But too late now the cards are delt
A simple 5 and king you hold
A simple 15 you say fold
No no wrong game my friend
This is blackjack
Now answer this hit or stand
Hitting will give you another card you may get a 10 or a nine maybe a simple 5
Standing will end your turn
Then ill have those same choices unless i get a 21 you see i haven't picked up and looked at my cards
Now hit or stand risk it all for the chance to win or stand and see what the cards hold within
That is for you to decide i would stand if it were me
But this is you i like to see the whole table and everything that could possibly be
Again this is you your decision you can win or lose either way so what will you say
Hit?
Or
stay?
I got this at the right time of my life,when I'm struggling with my idea for a story.
This came in on my autoplay while writing an English essay. Perfect timing.
The Light
Grasp with all your might
For this good light is fleeting
Restrict this foul darkness
Do not welcome the darkness
Strive with all your might to stay within the light
For the darkness is constant
Yet this fine light is infinitesimal
when compared to it
Reject this foul darkness
Never let it enter
For it will linger
Seek the light with all your might
For this good light is fleeting
I love how this is so long
masterpiece
time flew like it's commitment,
holding that hand I understood it's essence
just when it left all to find something else in another realm
I Understood his Presence when he wasn't there to hear my Last Word that shall never end.....
every 14 years old edgy boy in this comment section: hE wRoTe
They just wanna write poems stfu
@@yourtwinkvince3289 It was a joke lol chill out
@@yourtwinkvince3289 lmao it was a joke calm down edgy boy
@Greco-Italian Mapper bro it was a joke... i already know what ur talking about cause i'm 16 and i passed the last 4 years dealing with depression, suicidal thoughts, and a lot of other stuff that nobody gives a fuck about.
@@misth6906 I know this was a month ago. But I care.
damn thats cool
Wonderful
There inside the nameless void that once was my sanity and life washing away, all of what I was forever forgotten, nothing mattered for that I wouldn’t be remembered, as everything is dead already. The everlasting quiet and solemn noise reverberating as I just play a final piece knowing that at least inside such an hour of my final and desperate attempt of a grab for falling hope forever gliding, I sit on with my hands but now figures without a name moving on the piano that is now turned to a extension of what is left of who is playing, I feel myself going as the piano reverberates and echos out into the unfathomable abyss, soon whilst the music plays inside quick succession tears falling but hitting a ground no longer there, all begins to fade as but the final showance of humans and creations so beautiful finally fizzle out, now leading to a abyss where the cries of lovers, the laughs of children, the crackle of guns, and the horns of trumpets forever silent, forever dead, the only thing left but the silent slumber of what once was all who walked on a planet forever forgotten.
Beautiful!
Thanks
I have a thousand stories in my head he said and smirked. He considered himself a writer.
He came closer and buy me a drink. Two strangers meeting in a bar. Not much of an original story.
Later that night, when I opened his skull, I swear, I found nothing in there.
"Ahora duerme tranquilo"
-Zowl
Heavy synth or vocal heavy music often distracts my writing but ambient helps it, piano and soft orchestra don't and neither does jazz, real jazz. A lot of music is good for writing because it enables the mind without clouding or interrupting thoughts. Intrusion really is the greatest enemy of the writer.
Needless to say, there's always a "writer" to a story. Reading a book is like looking at a different world, you can observe it as it go on. But as every story has it own "end", so does our own. Every story starts as an idea, and that idea grows to a concept, to a plot, and finally, a story.
A "writer" has the power to manipulate the story, and it can do it in ways unimaginable to the characters to its story. A story is never perfect, because it changes constantly.
If the "writer" gets fed up with the story, it may change it, abandon it, or in a worse case scenario, completely erase it. But what happens to those characters of the erased story? and what happens if the "writer" liked the story?
The "writer" is the only one who can decide on the matter, for one who creates has power over the creation.
I raised a cracked glass,
it filled with whisky,
as i was alone in my room,
i drank i drank,
until the glass was empty,
as i grabbed the bottle i had i hid, it was nearly empty.
I looked into the emtpy glass seeing my own reflection,
thinking should i really be doing this?
I didnt like the answer i reached,
so i emptied the rest of the bottle into my glass.
I raised the glass again,
refusing to drink i let the glass go,
as the glass hit the ground it smashed into pieces,
I saw myself in the reflection of the pieces,
realising I was the same, just several pieces badly put together,
trying to fix myself i grabbed the pieces left,
knowing i was going to break further,
i gripped tight as blood fell down to the floor,
looking at my hand seeing the prettiest shade of red,
the most peaceful feeling immersed from me.
i use to listen your compositions while i write my own horror novel . thanks for this (sorry for the english ahaha).
I write and I write... but no words stay. Only beings that appear from out of nowhere.
First a man, then a woman.
I write and I write... but no words stay. Only beings that appear from out of nowhere.
There are billions of them now.
I write and I write...
...what have I done?
очень сложное произведение, навевает аналогию с поздними фортепианными сонатами Бетховена. Это уровень высокой классики, не ширпотреба
a very complex piece, it evokes an analogy with Beethoven's late piano sonatas. This is the level of high classics, not consumer goods
It's inspiring.
Under the deep ocean in a quaint house, he wrote . . .
All he wrote was the word "The". His pet snail looked at him and slithered away. He then went to go sleep. That's it.
The poet and the writer
The poet poeted and the writer wrote.
The end
The Writer.
There is an infinite white room where I pass my existence. It does not have any object or the slightest light, but it is still possible to see. This may be called the vacuum, others may say it is life after death, heaven or hell. But honestly it doesn't matter. It really doesn't matter.
That's when he called me to a conversation.
Wait, where am I? - You said.
Oh, it's you. We were waiting for you. - I told you.
Who are you? And where are you?
Whoever you want me to be. And wherever you want to be.
What do you mean?
It's simple, I am who I am, and I can be who you plan to be.
Is this a joke?
You still don't understand, do you? It just doesn't get into your head. I may not know how you look, but I know you exist. But you're not to blame - I think to myself.
Ok, it seems that I'm not getting enough information to formulate an answer to my questions. Could you tell me how I can get out of this place? - You ask.
It's hard for someone to get in here, but it's easy to access your exit. - I answer.
Okay, and how can I leave this place?
-There's a hidden key in this place, neon white, it's very visible.
You look for the whole room, but strangely you don't find the key.
The key is not here. - You affirm.
In this white room it is impossible to see anything, but we still have time. Let's try to find it somewhere else. Where do you want to go? - I say.
Do I at least have any option? This all seems much more confusing to me.
Tell me where you want to go and I will guide you.
You think for a while, looking frustrated.
Okay, let's go to some house in a field, maybe there's something.
You say it in a joking tone. But suddenly, the surroundings change. Everything is more colorful.
Wait, this is the house?
Yes, like you said.
Right -You seem a little confused - I think the key is in the keychain.
But where is the keychain? - I question
Simple, at the entrance door. - You say.
You walk towards the door, but without looking confused, as if you already know that place. The house is relatively large, with 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms, a living room along with the kitchen and a dining room next door.
Ah, it was right here - you say with a smile on your face when you reach the key - now where is the exit?
Probably in the back of the house. Let's go there.
You usually go to the back of the house, but strangely there doesn't seem to be an end, like endless corridors typical of nightmares. After a while of walking, you begin to show signs of nervousness.
Where exactly are we going? - You ask me, nervous.
I can't say for sure, but you should know.
What do you mean I should know? Do I look like a psychic?
What do you think?
I answer your question with another question of mine that makes you think for a while.
What do you mean?
When we came to this house, you knew exactly where the key was and mainly you knew the residence, even not knowing where you specifically are.
It's true. - You agree.
So tell me, where should we go?
Let's go to the hall on the left.
We go to the corridor on the left and miraculously we find the exit. When we open the door, we return to the white room.
Really? Are we here again? Wasn't I supposed to go back to where I know I was there?
It seems to be more difficult than I thought.
What do you mean?
You need something to get you out of here.
What do you mean by that?
You're stuck with something without chains, cell, or even threats or kidnapping.
You just showed up here.
Are you kidding me? Where am I then?
You're in your own mind, you're imagining scenes, places, people, conversations... all in a chain reaction in a fluid way, looking like a real place. You're in your own head, but trapped in the custody of the writer. The writer created a white room where he could add his ideas and people to manipulate them and create an external entertainment, but he gave you his freedom; the freedom to create everything around you. But you are just an object in his hands. At any moment you will disappear, like me.
But, who are you?
I am that voice in your head that talks to yourself about what should and should not appear on paper leaves to soon become a book. You are the writer of your own story, but this voice can induce you to an alternative path, being it good or bad. This voice can also induce you to understand what happens around you.
Exactly what happened in the house....
Yes, I induced you to a psychic to "writer" comparison, you knew the house because you had imagined it perfectly, consequently you knew it too.
So I...
Yeah, you will continue writing your own life script, but soon you will disappear in the void of the author's imagination, but their memory will be alive for some time. You will not be completely forgotten forever. So I hope.
Little by little, I saw the room and you became dust, along with my existence.
Surprisingly, this music is perfect to listen to while reading Batman comics