there are moments when you want to write
but no metaphors seem heavy or light enough
strong or limp enough
willfull or spontaneous enough
and then you are left looking at the paper
which in this case, is your life
and you wonder what comes next
and why are you so bent on using a certain type of pen
when so many are available to you?
or, why are you writing without a pen - what does that
mean? that experience you are trying to write without
the tools needed?
or maybe you have run out of pens to use and are just
waiting for someone with a stack of pens to borrow.
ok - this is where the metaphor drops --
so my life has been this paper, yo
ive been around people that run out of ink
and take mine for themselves to relish
or just wait for me to run out of ink
and into writersblock, whichever comes first.
and in doing so - sucked my writer's spirit away
that's how i feel about drama.
i think i have allowed a healthy amount
to fester and really eat at my core - but there
are pieces of soulful flesh caught in my
nightmares and pushing my limbs to action.
i can't watch someone i love and respect
(whose pen has scribbled and cursived an
awakening in me) be in pain. especially
if i can help... and therein lies the problem.
i am no martyr.
i admit some of my actions are abrasive,
still, it is who i have grown to except
and from here, it doesn't look so bad