Day Two

Maybe that's how I'll catalog this NaBloPoMo ordeal. Like a terrifying descent into the madness of writing. The way POWs go from semi-ordered soldiers to maggot eating maniacs intent on killing the next thing that moves. Day One. Day Two. Day Three.



Oooh. That sounds exciting.



Writing is more than the simple formulaic enterin of letter after letter; it's a purging of souls, an exorcism of ideas, an attempt to change the world instantly if only one could find The Right Words. We write and then we hate what we write. When we're not writing we wish we were writing. (When I was there, I wanted to leave; Now that I'm here, all I can think of is going back).



We stare blankly at computer screens and lined journal pages and mentally curse them for not filling with brilliant prose or eloquent verse. We pray that the words will bleed from our black ink veins. Nightly or daily, hourly we force words to come yet they are never the right ones. When will the right ones come?

In the bottom of whiskey bottles we search, cursing, crying, creating, destroying, penning, rhyming...

We search our pain for reasons to right; happiness is never insightful nor prose worthy.

I write because I must. Never have I cared if someone did or did not read my words. My own randon thoughts will hammer in my mind until a pencil and paper is found and the few sparse concepts drain from my fingertips.

SCREAMING HARDLY BREATHING, THE WORDS MUST BE WROTE
ATTEMPTED UNMENTIONEDS THE IMPOSSIBILITY CHOKES
UNKNOWN ALONE IN A CAGE OF ANONYMINITY
EVERYONE READING VERSE REMAINS MY SWORN ENEMY
HOWEVER, IN ME, THE WORDS RIGHT TO SURFACE OF LIFE
AND I MUST WRITE WITH THE EDGE OR BE CUT BY THE KNIFE
-purpose-

A few words I wrote in a altered/induced stupor on why I write. (Find more in my book lost poetix).

-it is what it is-