Title

Everyone reflects the words of others. They force out the letters and hope that sentences form as they splatter on the pages below them. They themselves don't understand what those words are saying. Ask them what it means? They will answer back what they were taught those things meant.  

Letters pressed together and torn apart to form words and later sentences. Sentences divided from one another with variations of punctuation. Go ahead, decide what will sever one from the rest. A period, a coma- perhaps a dash? A question mark even! Heck an exclamation point would be just as fine.  

Leave a space untainted. Leave the space innocent. Tear the rest with your lacerating ink. Ravage the white page until there is nothing left. This monstrous act was committed to form paragraphs. One after another, you decided what space will remain untouched by your weapon of choice while the rest lies engulfed by your thoughts and drown in your graphite.  

What is the point of this? Why drench these pages in your sin- your thoughts and ideas? Share them with the world? Pages once white turn black as their tears smear their make-up. All this suffering caused by you. You pressed into the white canvas and tore it open as you swung your hand back and forth- up and down. 

These acts are in every way punishable by death. Yet, these acts have been, throughout history, swept under a shaggy rug and pushed down on by a round wooden desk. These acts take place on that desk, and later are published for all to look upon in awe. Around the world people gather to see these copies of gruesome paper bodies. A suspect that will never be accused. A suspect that gets rewarded for their crimes.  

These are the crimes of a writer...  

Author's Note

I was so bored I just let my fingers type away the first thoughts that came to mind- I was going to edit this- however I have come to love how it sounds. Let me know what y'all think!