Among Writers

Don’t take me seriously-
I can’t write
I will never belong,
these really are not my people
Is it my age?
Is it my personality?
Is it me?
I will never fit
I lost my voice, at times now I question it was ever there.

I do not belong here.
This is not my place
Yet, I see, hear, within them words, my words
How do they do that?
What magic potion did they take?
I want to ask them-
Teach me the handshake,
Show me the sign.
Standing off
My brain halts, no words come.
I am speechless.

Yet, here I sit behind the wall
A hard wooden seat
Pen in hand and paper sweet
Words flow
The dam has broken

My norm
Unfortunately isn’t common
No one’s is
Crave 2 b included
Doubt self inflicted.



Writers are scavengers of life.

Plucking emotion from made up fantasies while dealing with reality.

Writers use words as a timewarp to manipulate and control destinies of their inner wants and needs.

Setting the dark gnarly worm of self destruction into a blossoming butterfly of freedom from the demon of the Id.

Compensation comes in the form of the devoted reader who scours every word for entertainment, enjoyment and meaning;

Finding more than what they were looking for.

Finding for themselves a sanctuary between the words and nestling in for keeps.

We delve within our slumber of reality and live among dreams, we —the writer and the reader.

A match entwined.

27 January 2016

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