Have you written a story that breathes?
Have you ever written a story that bleeds?
Have you ever written a story that comes out with ease?
Have you ever had to cut a story from your soul?
Have you ever had to throw it out on the streets?
Have you ever had to watch it suffer?
Have you had to watch it mourn?
Have you ever had to help it get back to purpose it was written for?
Is that why you write?
For experiences?
RIGHT HERE
Once ago I thought I knew myself. But that was years ago. I’m me. Though I’m not myself.
I see all this time passing by and I think I should be different. Think I need to conform. I clench my eyes shut to pass away the voice inside my head.
Dammit I can still hear it. It never goes away.
My conscience. Is that what it is? Maybe.
All the maybes they drown. Not my soul. They drown my sense.
I’ve done a lot of changing. I’ve transitioned into different stages. I watch the News. I see all these things happening. I listen everyday, what’s going to happen?
I see it all, right here. Right in this exact moment.
I look across a field, glancing between the blades of grass. I can see her. Running, prancing, falling in love with the spirit of life.
She’s sprinting, she doesn’t see the hole. She falls in lost.
She comes back again. Staring back at me. Right here, she looks me in the eyes.
Gone again she goes, rolling through the hills, running through airports, jumping out of planes, and falling from skyscrapers.
I see her once again.
Right here, in my reflection.
(Discovery:Part 3)
Honestly I could spend a lot of time, branding what I think discovery is.
But that would be useless.
Come show.
Go away tell.
I think the thing I enjoy most about writing other than the actual writing portion is writer support.
It still amazes me to this moment how writers from every where, all across the world, will support others that practice their craft.
I don’t know what anyone else thinks, but I think that is so beautiful. That really says something about the writing world. We all have a story to tell, but as writers we can make sure that no story ever goes unnoticed.
I’m in a writer’s group, I have been in some form or another for about 5 years now. The group I am in now is absolutely amazing. I learn something new every time we all meet. Now if you step back and take a look at our group. We have a former English/Journalism student, a Geologist, an author/mom, a math professor/author. We are all not just writers, we have other commitments, but we all make time to support each others writing careers and lives.
We have our own endeavors, but we all support each other.
Growing up I always thought writing was a reclusive thing, I loved it, but others frowned on it. As if they thought I never got out of the house and learned anything.
Now I’m grown up, I’ve made the writer world my home. It’s not reclusive. Nor does it not teach you anything. We as writer’s understand without writing, society would be nothing. There wouldn’t be books to educate with, there wouldn’t be libraries. Some of the smartest people in the world are writers. Writing is the framework of society.
That is why I will never not support other writers. When I go to events, I get so excited when I get to meet another author. You never know what ideas or new tools you or going to learn. Or you could possibly form a new friendship.
Writers will never die out because of some controversy society has caused. No, we are too strong for that. We teach about the controversy. As a whole, writer’s are what makes people understand.
All of us writers, together we are our own society.
Go now,
Free yourself.
These walls take face.
Anew year by year,
The paint recedes.
The drawings appear thy noon.
These lips,
Red on.
Tan goo,
Blended across.
Dusted cheek bones,
Darkened,
And swirled,
Blush pink.
Lined eyes,
Powdered immense.
Dewy skin,
Come see such a glow.
I see it,
My life on the walls.
These years I’ve lived,
Aging in the same house.
The years flaking away,
Like all this chipping paint.
Powder Pink,
Fading to 20’s blue.
How I see it,
By the water damaged door.
In this house,
Life times,
In layers,
Found in freckled lacquer.
