Give me complicated. I miss the cut of unsaid things. The sting of closely guarded thoughts. Being winded by the knowledge of the action.
Give me the trill song of whispered secrets. The thrill of hushed meetings. The touch of chastened lips.
Give me the explosion of requited passion. The thrill of burning fire along forbidden limbs. The satisfaction of stolen moments.
Give me the bile. The visceral. The vivissection of souls laid bare. The guilt. The pleasure. The laughs. The tears. The irreparable damage. The scars. The new beginnings. The happy endings. The tragedies.
Give me anything outside of this numbness. The emptiness of this ever falling rabbit hole.
Scream at me that I’m a live.
Invisible in limbo
Firstly I want to say that I love your work. However, I would like to ask that you ignore your creative writing teacher. She/he is wrong about the little words in sentences. They are, in fact, important. These little words are what turn words into sentences. Imagine if you will a raft. Now remove the bindings from the logs and what are you left with?
Yours truly me.
Sometimes I just want to watch the world burn.
Or walk off into the dark.
Maybe I should start writing again. Lose myself in their stories. The stories that flash before my eyes. The stories I’ve lived, the stories that I’ll never get to have in my dull little life. But through my pen they live and dance and die by my whim. In carefully timed prose. In haphazardly formed patterns. Words falling onto the page. Emptying out of me and filling up the blankness.
Catharsis. Raw and unending.