I’m beautifully damaged and camouflaged behind the words I write down, a hunter ready to strike for your eyes, voice and heart. A personal quiet riot! A waft from the page, can you smell that? That’s not my body odour; it would be my soul I just sold, on fire! I’m tortured in life; my demons have keys for all my doors I close and barricade. I’m hurt; I’m holding bloody-hands out for you to pick me up, I’m pulling for you to see what I see, maybe you can see words are my own way out from this cesspool hell hole.
I’m not writing for money; I would be happy to write something for my next meal or something resemblance to a second of happiness. You want words? I’ll give you some! When I threap this quill, I know my stories are ephemeral because my life is mirrored to yours as imbroglio; I know when I began incipiently and I never became inure. The darkness made the words almost labyrinthine mixed with crazy, my work became panoply. I ravish each sentence, I ravel up each paragraph. Some days I wish I would become nefarious and I will use all I know, forever, grandiloquently.
And I didn’t even go to University or College!
These words haunt me; I’ve never seen or dreamed these figments before, where did they come from? I know I must write them; possessed by the legendary writing masters from the past, Poe, Shakespeare, Tolkien and Tu’pac. I’m not even here, don’t mind me crouched in the corner naked and filthy, shocking shaking while laughing at what my hands can do. These tears keep me from falling further into that hole, cupping out my hands to carry them into the land of the living. Yes, I have some baggage.
I want to scream sometimes but all I can muster-up is exclamation marks!!!! I need a way out, it’s either get rich or die trying. I pick the foremost. I’m suffocating here; I need to catch a break for breath. I want my words to transport me to another world. If I’m not brushing off Cop-Stares, I’m jumping over and through bushes to escape Monsters. Letting creative juices flow when I bang my forehead on my desk, I’ll concuss my way through these writings.
We all adapt to the pains of life, I’m soaking wet with gasoline, I need a way out; I’m searching for a light. I’m only powering-up to be a standing joke, direct your attention this way, please! I’m skating acclivity. The dog circles around me, until it sits at my feet; it drags it sight to the sky. The dog’s head falls off and a fountain of blood spurts over me. I’m covered in sweat; these night terrors need to stop, in my waking life I’m living in, I’m feral because it.
Does this pen even exist on my realm? It does, it must; I’m the one who doesn’t subsist. I scratch my madness on the walls with my fingernails, this page is my blackboard. First I must beat life before I beat my work; the bullies in school have already had playtime on my face. I’m throwing my hands in the air for surrender and praise to this hurt. Bring on the pain.
This is the last straw; finding my work online is the same as finding a needle in a haystack. I’m exploding above this world because my fire-works. Boom! I just see thing differently; hands coming from the floor, clouds are spaceships for ghosts; this page is trying to steal my thoughts. I am my own literary agent! I’m my own pimp; all I have to do is open up for my punters.
I’m writing for life, I have to write in my own heartbeats. Oblivion is my only option, beyond that I’ll have writers block. Never say never!
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