pain on my head, crowd sitting down, tell them to get lost, first i thought they were the crown.
@stildv
i write { fiction | non-fiction | code }
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ripen the flesh, them shadows in my back, fasten the belt, for we have to break.
you can test my instincts, you can taste my fear, for even if i am lost, what are you, all ghost…
crazy as it were, no matter what they wear, worn and torn inside, glorious but not born.
crack open my head, feed the mush to monkeys, feast on my needs, let them become beasts.
i got the writer’s bollocks.
it happens when you try to write something but you don’t know where, when, what and how.
this one does not happen when a writer unfortunately and incidentally loses his/her muse.
this happens when writer who is not even a writer loses, perhaps, his/her pen.
pen tries to tell him something (tired of his/her thing).
so the pen speaks:
- so from now on you shall not write.
- why, the pen, why me, why me, why what when which?
- you don’t even know how to speak. the pen repeats with pride and prejudice without even bothering to say the first time. …
1. for every story there is a beginning, so they say.
2. but, you don’t have to witness the beginning to be in a story.
3. well, of course you are in a story.
4. a story does not finish before it reaches you. and also no story ever ends.
5. even after you hear the story. …
road must be taken, long as it is, not started you already have, no finish line visible in this.
tender and crisp, your mind is when wide open, close and protect with conscience, don’t leave it to whatever will happen.
cry out loud, for no one to hear, you befriend everyone away, leaving no one near.