Category Archives: Writing

last one

I struggle with identity, hustling my friends for fees, like my posts and like my feed and if it’s not enough I flee, I see these flaws, these traits I treat with such distaste and patient greed, every friend who cared for me I push away, I vaccinate, I take a hit you take the bait, I call for absence, call for space, silent contemplation’s mate, but damn I sure do miss those days, writing for that small Crusade, banding up to flip the page it paved the way for so much praise I fell addicted, felt the rage of falling short on certain days and so I left, turned my back and kept the pen inside my chest and that’s the day I started fresh, wrote like fire, read like the wind (like flipping pages) Vonnegut, Pirsig, Hemingway, print, the pages in my fingers felt like grace before a drink, the education every writer needs contrast, contrast, exposure, risk. But I was playing it safe, wasn’t I? Writing for myself was safe, my inner demon wasn’t praise but a lack of feedback leaves you strayed, a desert full of endless words and sure it felt so good to be afraid, to be alone and avoid the race, to anchor down inside your mind and float yourself into a glaze.

But today I went back and saw what I didn’t let myself see and I regret acting so selfishly, delving deep into the wells of grief, self pity is a tunnel and I was driving it at top speeds.

From under the rock

Silence on the page is like a flatline. Satisfying. Complete. There are no ups and downs. That angst for survival is stripped away from your skin like a moist old bandaid and your bloody gashes can heal in the cold open air. Fucking adjectives. They pile up in me so the next few pieces I write will be cluttered with ‘em. I wish I could write that without an apostrophe. I want to write in slang but I really care about those apostrophes.

I feel like I want to say sorry for not writing. I want there to be people in the world waking up every morning pissed because there’s no new content by me. I know there aren’t any, except for me. Writing is like masturbation but you never finish. You just get aggravated and shaft your dick and your hands cramp up.

But anyway. Sorry or fuck you, you pick. I’m back to the page.

Writer’s Block Week @ CC

I’ve documented my share of lit-constipation, and this week at the Conceited Crusade I’m supposed to pine for the days where words used to run down over the page like I took alphabetical laxatives. But this week I’ve had quite a healthy digestive system, thematically speaking (and literally, drink lots of water guys), so instead I wrote some flash fiction about divorce and killing bad guys. Read it here.