One is not simply a writer, my boy
That’s like saying that the doctor is simply a man of medicine
Ours is a little-understood occupation, dating as far back as words themselves
“Odd people, they are. Wizards who conjure vain imaginations,” they say.
But let me tell you, they only have the first half right
We are wizards, of a sort, but that is a gross understatement of our demands
And “vain” is simply a perfect example of poor word choice
I prefer “ponderous” because it implies more intention and less empty thought
But, as I was saying, the wizard is but one of our many roles
One accomplished in our trade is an artist, seeing the fine brush strokes as easily as the portrait
We are motivational speakers, politicians, lawyers, those who mete out justice and mercy successfully
We become the plowboy as easily as the monarch
We are poets, playwrights, makers of riddles
Religious leaders, philosophers
We are the creator of a new world, one untouched by the mental footprints of other men
We essentially become everyone and everything within our universe
Otherwise, we offer a poor waste of time, indeed
And that, my boy, is why one is never simply a writer
I’m looking for book stores, cafes, lounges that sort of thing. Thanks!
The best gifts I’ve ever received
are the glow in the dark stars
that you stick to your ceiling.
But it wasn’t until you came along
That I started finding patterns:
The curl of your hair
Or the slope of your calf,
Almost like I knew you’d be coming
When I placed them
The first time you saw them
Your arm was still wrapped
Around my waist
And your fingertips traced their patterns
Onto skin which already had their patterns memorized.
You asked, “Isn’t it hard to sleep
With all the light?”
And I wanted to tell you
That they reminded me
I was part of something bigger
But I found it hard to tackle the topic
Without tripping over my tongue.
While we were bored,
We rearranged them into different shapes.
Instead of your calf
Instead of your smile
A big dipper.
It didn’t help me forget.
If you asked me who I would die for
A million names come to mind:
Jeff and Kristen and Sarah and Sam
And Tyler and Henry and Maddy and Vivienne
And so on and so forth into every crevice of my memory,
But my last thought will always be
What is lost when I am gone?
No more kiwi smoothies after…
Did you know
That the Guinness Book of World Records
Gets five claims a day
Of someone being able to lick their own elbow,
You just aren’t one of them,
And there have been two people in this world
With documented eidetic memories
And you wont even remember my name.
How about the fact
That writing poetry can help improve cognitive functions
And bullying leads to depression
Not every fact has to be correct
It just has to get my point across.