Blaspheming-Jargon

I have nothing yet in my brain that I can put on paper. All I see are sentences, never-ending sentences. I feel the love for a craft and the chaos of the love. Trying to dream while tossing and turning. Riding black horses into my nightmares. I am will to building an empire brick by brick but lack the focus of a mason. Yet if the whip cracks enough slaves can build a pyramid. I suppose it depends on who is your master. Be it yourself or another. This is the only context in which slavery leads to freedom. The freedom to become great. Us storytellers have vast minds and fit tongues, cigarette breathes and coffee stained teeth, reanimated dreams in a dying reality. We kill trees to create our stories, we scribble our time away to confess our love, we write muddled nonsense to gather thoughts or perhaps to scream to the Gods. We feel hopeless while fueled by eternity and caffeine, we are poets, we are all knowing and self-doubting, we are depressed while being overly-optimistic, we just want to be heard when we whisper. We whisper because everyone is yelling, the world is too loud as silver linings come undone. Listen to me, I can tell you what you want to here, listen to me and realize it is you that is speaking as you read this. We are more than writers.

Author's Note

I don't really care how you feel as long as you read.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Needs a bit of polish grammatically...but much truth here about writing, being a writer and dealing with the downfalls...and the labels...
yes, we are more than writers....Living is the poem or the story...and we just live.
j.