writer

Costa is King

Quite possibly the largest number of singletons or loners found within one group at any one time. This quaint little coffee shop, a hive of activity for writers and readers alike. They swarm from trains and buses, tumble in from the street to find themselves a lone corner or quiet table from which to write their lives on the pages. Words conjoining to find meaning within inked lines, a master watching the beauty, as they swirl into being, taking form in their growth. Gnashing and gnarling, devouring everything in proximity before their inevitable death; then a refill of espresso to help the writer’s block.

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Image: Pixabay

Spare Parts

A part of me is lost
Fragments of phalanx rise to the top
In a river of words
Blood splattered lettering
Smudged onto cartridge paper
Thick set and rolled
Ammunition for the brain

Firing rhymes
from the top of my head
Adjectives overflowing
Caressing cinnamon ledgers
Dusty tomes of epic tales
Offset with coffee stains
And sprinkled with sweat

Parts of me are misplaced
Welded to sheets of carbon copy
Skin speckled vellum
Thoughts chiseled into slate
Cold and haunting – unwanted
Exhausted ideas settle within grooves
Burnished in birchwood

Though the fountain is never stemmed
Poems pour forth,involuntarily
Inevitably, without fear
Raw and ready to be moulded
Fusing with my mind
Until possessed and weary
I submit to their will

Parts of me are missing
Yet I claim my soul, my own

Stolen Words

Its those stray words

Consonants singing across vacant air

The loose thoughts, that jingle

Emerging from the brains of hidden minds

And escaping

Hovering

Within the grasp of ears

Its the way that they stab

Into heads

Into hearts

Stored away, until finally, freedom

comes – That exultant gasp for life

Rolling from tongues into existence

Permeating the waves

Until, suddenly

Grabbed by a precocious writer

To be a real writer

A real writer bleeds onto the page.

That’s what they said.

A real writer forces jagged fingernails into their chest and tears out their bloody heart still beating so the page can be splattered in crimson glory. To take that ugly bleeding heart and smear it across the pristine sheet until words are formed from the blotting patches of blood. Swirling in the mind of the fevered artist and covered thick with their lifeblood.. their entire soul .

Only when you have given yourself over to the desire, to the need, to the pain can you fully understand the expectations of one so wretched. Hoping that one day these smears and blotches will mean something. Wishing that one day someone will come along with eyes filled with wonder, lift the piece and exclaim in awe. To gush at the richness of the imagery, gasp at the raw emotion on show and most of all understand how hard it is for one so private to allow a heart out of its cage, enough to scar a notepad with such force.

Only then shall I feel like a writer.