Litkicks Message Board Archive
Would you if I could (please critique)
Once written: "When I grow up I will be a writer."
The crayon portrait showed my blond in a neon yellow, eyes-dots of bright expectation. A plumed pen sat in an ink well and the desk sat square and majestic.
I'm grown up now, and the desk I sit in smells of traded dreams. The ideas I gave away begged, bled, and kicked on the way out. And I sit with no pen, no plumage, nothing- Just open eyes and an empty heart.
It's these moments I think I should smoke. That’s how the greats do it right. Sit-stuck, take a puff of a cigarette and find inspiration in the burn. Blow out the smoke-sometimes in rings, and return to work. Carving in ink a monument, at very least something worth reading.
Sadly I only smoke when on fire, and right now I’m cold- weathered and beaten, with nothing to find meaning in.
I would write about my day, but how inspiring is it to sit at a blank page tapping tapping the lines hoping to shake a sentence out. Hoping that one phrase would be like the engine of a train and pull the weight of the rest into a neat file.
Would you read of me, steaming with anger in an empty house? Turning the TV on and off, knowing that distraction wasn’t subtraction and the problems still existed despite my best efforts.
Despite this wish to empty my veins in ink and drink the words. Spit them red from dying lips into the abyss of library shelves. Hidden words are still written words and I suppose I would like that just the same. To create something that may take on its own destiny. To breathe life into white pulp and call it eve, the eater of the apple, bearer of wisdom, and forever out of reach.
Could I bare an addiction? would this give my mind the time to run from the doubt that haunts me, guards me, and scars my dreams?
Would a drink allow these run-on's to run on on on on to some hidden fiction were they are meant to be unbroken?
Could my veins sustain a shot of a tar to move my mind into a new gear, a Poe-esque depression, gothic renditions of evil love?
If I could break this writters block I am chained to, would you run free with me, Hounds chasing, our lungs tasting our first taste of escape?
Could I write
Could you read.
Would You, If I could...