The gold runs like blood from deep within,
Like a fury of thunder demanding to be heard.
It beats with my heart as my senses sharpen,
As your breath shudders while you drift off to sleep.
I feel the gold flow as I drift off to that gentle goodnight,
For I know you’ll be waiting for me through the mist of a nightmare.
I’ll stand my ground until my heart waives,
But even then it’ll beat forever.
I’ll turn the gravel into the dust of time,
I’ll only move until I can stand no longer.
I’m a patient man, but patience grows thin,
Thinner than my hair as time crawls by.
You told me to wait, but wait you did not,
So why must I refrain from letting myself go?
This music is touching, the string are prominent,
The notes rage like an undying cry.
You may hear it’s tone, but do you feel its story?
Sing like the birds on a crisp spring morning,
Wake like you have a purpose.
Pluck the string when all others are deaf to your calling,
Breathe like the summer breeze that dares to touch your skin.
I could have sworn that I loved you,
I would have died a thousand times.
I’d have fallen just to catch you,
I’d break my back just to keep you afloat.
But now I wonder if that was all true,
When I see your heart splitting for another.
Yet, I’d still pick you up when you’d fall,
Even if I’d shatter into splinters.
I’m afraid of countless things,
Like loss and hurt, above all.
I can count my dreams like counting the stars,
They will never cease to follow me.
What are you afraid of?
The dark of the night?
Or do you fear the empty spaces?
My head flows with dismay and disaster,
But what should I fear more, the questions, or the answers?
There’s nothing more painful than reading success stories, while your unfinished project remains open for the fifth year.
It’s probably best not to read into how J. K Rowling’s success came out of the blue, but I suppose there’s some inspiration to take from it. After all, if we don’t believe we can get somewhere, then there’s no point in doing anything at all.
I’m forever flicking through countless articles of what makes a writer a true writer, but in all honest, most of them are filled with over the top money making schemes that takes away what is essential in the art of writing – personality.
What is the point in trying so hard to work out the ways of the novel? What do we benefit from taking lessons on how a certain character should act? Not much, in my opinion. There’s a delicacy involved when creating your own world. It is literally taking a part of your self, and bleeding it into electronic ink so finely, that you can call it your own. Taking away the creativity and adding in structured lessons you found online, is just taking away what makes you a true writer.
Yet, there are other issues I need to face other than originality. Patience and determination is just a few amongst dozens of others. But perseverance is the most important. One day, I’ll get there, and I’m sure it will be awful and lacking of all correct structure and dialogue. But it will be mine, a part of me that I plucked out so carefully, and crafted it into something worth my own time.
As usual, I’m babbling, but I hope there some form of clarity to be found. Don’t define your stories based on what other deem useful. Write about what you want, not what you think is essential.
Nothing feels right,
My clothes feel like skin that shouldn’t be there.
The air feels intrusive like microscopic invaders,
Nothing feels right.
I don’t want to open my eyes and see my life broken into hours,
Nor do I want to fall asleep and enter a new world with the same horrors.
Today is a new day, only with added memories,
And even those don’t feel like my own.