Eating shoes and taking names. Junking the Big dog, or Raining on my pinata. Words. Words that fit, and words that fail. Pouring from my pen.
Ink spilling rolling out from the ball point (ball point of my soul I could say) Metal scratching, scribbling, scrawling break me and bear me forth.
I want to tell you a story. Now I realize the weakness inherent in this first line. My wanting something, as a writer, means nothing. Waiting to tell a story means less. If I really wanted to tell the story it would begin and you would know my desire not by my telling, but by your captivation.
There is a picture in my mind's eye. A picture sitting in a constant fluctuating stasis. I spread the paint and the canvas mirrors nothing of my intent. I may sketch or draw a perfect moment, or capture a picture on film. But though I make a masterpiece the piece of my mind still stands alone, untouched, and unreplicated.
The power of words to transfer my mind to yours. A symbol communicated loses power, loses validity, loses life.
For whom then do I write?
3 comments:
I was extremely excited to hear a story. All this build up, and nothing.
Sigh.
Dude, that was deep. Sounds like you have been reading poetry again. I like it.
Love this.
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