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Literature Text
I am your neighborhood whore of self-assurance. I am your lock-lipped student. I am every angst-ridden teenager, every heart-aching mother, every boy with a bass guitar. And I am a writer.
I know the strength of the pen and the impact of digital words. I’ll tell you of abandonment that I’ve never suffered, of love never lost, and touch I’ve never felt. I know the sensation of inspiration struck at midnight, of swallowing native ideas, of embracing a language of words never spoken. I’m every sick child you picked on, every boy you cheated on, every adolescent brave enough to pick up a pen, every person who had the guts enough to make a difference on paper. I’m what you wish you were in a place you want. I’m alive in the red glow of lamplight, I breathe in the scratched ideas on a diary’s blank pages. I know the envy of talent surpassed and the anger of muse lost and I use everything you toss to the garbage as my ink.
I’m every song you hate and every book you love, every girl you wish you had kissed and every piece of information you ignored. I’m your freak, your sex, your electric light culture; your raver, your scenester and your black-light nail polish. I’m rough around the edges so you don’t have to be. I’m your cheap screw, your naïveté lost to hormone curiosity. I’m every idea you had but didn’t pursue, every inch you let your hand slide to that dirty place your mother talked about. I’ll give a musical sound to your deafened ears and I’ll give the cones in your eyes the colors they’re missing.
I’m your text-message romance, the sensation formed in the womb, the beat of life unnoticed. I’m your black-ink revenge, your attention-crazed fingers, your living, breathing skin cells that cry out for the stimulation of human contact. I’m your brother-in-arms, your school-shooter newsbreak, your hammering question and your nagging answer.
I’m every prejudice in your head, every one-hit-wonder. I’m your superior, your inferior, your can, your can’t; everything you wish you could be and everything you have. I’m you lover, your liar, your beauty, your suicidal, ten-volt ego, your pulsing need. I’m every religious handbook, every utopian socialist, every massive sigh you heave, the tune in your step, the trill in your cry and beautiful bliss in your pain. I’m every inhaled, injected, crack-house drug you breathe. I’m senses amputated, I’m hello, ignorance and goodbye, pretty things. I’m your media analysis, your superficial non-conformist. I’m Trash Flavored Trash and Laser Life. I am one and I’m all, I’m giving and I’m taking.
I’m the God of my world. I’m your half-sister and your best friend’s brother. I’m pen and paper. I’m vomit-ideas. I’m red lights and purple freedom. I’m bliss. I’m release. I’m a writer.
I know the strength of the pen and the impact of digital words. I’ll tell you of abandonment that I’ve never suffered, of love never lost, and touch I’ve never felt. I know the sensation of inspiration struck at midnight, of swallowing native ideas, of embracing a language of words never spoken. I’m every sick child you picked on, every boy you cheated on, every adolescent brave enough to pick up a pen, every person who had the guts enough to make a difference on paper. I’m what you wish you were in a place you want. I’m alive in the red glow of lamplight, I breathe in the scratched ideas on a diary’s blank pages. I know the envy of talent surpassed and the anger of muse lost and I use everything you toss to the garbage as my ink.
I’m every song you hate and every book you love, every girl you wish you had kissed and every piece of information you ignored. I’m your freak, your sex, your electric light culture; your raver, your scenester and your black-light nail polish. I’m rough around the edges so you don’t have to be. I’m your cheap screw, your naïveté lost to hormone curiosity. I’m every idea you had but didn’t pursue, every inch you let your hand slide to that dirty place your mother talked about. I’ll give a musical sound to your deafened ears and I’ll give the cones in your eyes the colors they’re missing.
I’m your text-message romance, the sensation formed in the womb, the beat of life unnoticed. I’m your black-ink revenge, your attention-crazed fingers, your living, breathing skin cells that cry out for the stimulation of human contact. I’m your brother-in-arms, your school-shooter newsbreak, your hammering question and your nagging answer.
I’m every prejudice in your head, every one-hit-wonder. I’m your superior, your inferior, your can, your can’t; everything you wish you could be and everything you have. I’m you lover, your liar, your beauty, your suicidal, ten-volt ego, your pulsing need. I’m every religious handbook, every utopian socialist, every massive sigh you heave, the tune in your step, the trill in your cry and beautiful bliss in your pain. I’m every inhaled, injected, crack-house drug you breathe. I’m senses amputated, I’m hello, ignorance and goodbye, pretty things. I’m your media analysis, your superficial non-conformist. I’m Trash Flavored Trash and Laser Life. I am one and I’m all, I’m giving and I’m taking.
I’m the God of my world. I’m your half-sister and your best friend’s brother. I’m pen and paper. I’m vomit-ideas. I’m red lights and purple freedom. I’m bliss. I’m release. I’m a writer.
Literature
compulsive liar.
once i asked you your favourite
colour, and you said, "the brown
of your eyes," so i put in one green
contact and told everyone that i
came out of the womb as a factory
defect, half-priced, damaged goods.
-
sometimes i am from canada and
sometimes i am from england and
sometimes i am from spain.
i've carefully tempered my accents
and plotted out my stories with
yellow and purple coloured pencils
on index cards. my origin changes
like the seasons.
"why do you lie to everyone?" you
ask.
"why not?" i reply.
-
i wear nametags that read "alicia"
and "liana" and "samantha," because
i want to know how it feels to be
someon
Literature
Poetic Paradox
Bind the winds
and gag the trees,
shake down skies
and mute the seas,
bring the mountains
to their knees
for now is not the time
for poetry.
Literature
never trust a writer
It's best to stay far away from us writers. We're double-agents, and can't be trusted.
You see, we just have this terrible privilege of not being able to tell the difference between reality and fiction. We sometimes forget that the emotions in our head might not run with as much passion as they really do, and then we get disappointed in things that make normal people happy. We're afraid to get close to people, and yet all we do is yearn for human contact. That's why we write about it, and that's why we lose touch on what it really feels like to be in a relationship.
Writers often find that we don't fully comprehend the world around us, and,
Suggested Collections
Spurs of inspiration for the win. Blood Brother's references also for the win. I think only writers will understand this.
~Finch
~Finch
© 2008 - 2024 AGoddessFinch
Comments93
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Very good you had such a pull to your words it was beautiful from one fellow writer to the next you did superb