When you're not a writer
Goulet
Posts: 918
You find out at an early age,
when things get tough
and turn sour and thick
and muddy,
that everyone loves you
and what you do,
and that inevitability
you're going to make a difference in the world
because there are so many sad
and unfortunate
and normal people in the world,
and that is how you like to write.
Simply put,
you like simple words and phrases
that border on cliché words and phrase,
but you don't think much of it
because life is,
simply put,
cliché.
So on and on you write and tumble with letters
and numbers and lines and periods
and marks of honor and exclamation,
and your feelings are put down on paper
in masterful phrasings
that don't seem like masturbation at all.
All you stories, bland and otherwise,
about yesterday or tomorrow
or your long-ago childhood
or maybe about Greek Philosophers,
who you really know very little about anyways.
On and on you write and write
about truth and justice and integrity
and use lies to explain all those things,
and feel better doing it.
Soon you’re waking up in sleep with words
and phrases and ideas
but you get too lazy and tired to write them down.
You have an amazing idea for a book,
you say,
or a song you think could be used to heal some hurt,
but they just sit in your head,
bored and smoking cigarette butts.
So you think you've lost your way in the world
because now you're happy
and in love,
and you think there's no use in writing anymore
and you have less confidence in yourself
and less calluses on your fingers
and you're frothing at the mouth,
but not sure why.
when things get tough
and turn sour and thick
and muddy,
that everyone loves you
and what you do,
and that inevitability
you're going to make a difference in the world
because there are so many sad
and unfortunate
and normal people in the world,
and that is how you like to write.
Simply put,
you like simple words and phrases
that border on cliché words and phrase,
but you don't think much of it
because life is,
simply put,
cliché.
So on and on you write and tumble with letters
and numbers and lines and periods
and marks of honor and exclamation,
and your feelings are put down on paper
in masterful phrasings
that don't seem like masturbation at all.
All you stories, bland and otherwise,
about yesterday or tomorrow
or your long-ago childhood
or maybe about Greek Philosophers,
who you really know very little about anyways.
On and on you write and write
about truth and justice and integrity
and use lies to explain all those things,
and feel better doing it.
Soon you’re waking up in sleep with words
and phrases and ideas
but you get too lazy and tired to write them down.
You have an amazing idea for a book,
you say,
or a song you think could be used to heal some hurt,
but they just sit in your head,
bored and smoking cigarette butts.
So you think you've lost your way in the world
because now you're happy
and in love,
and you think there's no use in writing anymore
and you have less confidence in yourself
and less calluses on your fingers
and you're frothing at the mouth,
but not sure why.
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