Writer's Creation

Some say writers write because of a flaw in our society that they must point out

Or a new idea that blossoms like a lily in their chest, pure and new

Some say writers write to find and discover a new piece of themselves

Hidden within the dark, pooling ink so full of mystery and meaning

And though that may occasionally be true, writers will write because we have a story

A story that screams and claws at the cage that is our ribs

Pounding against our heart and bleeding through the stains on our fingertips

A story that rips at our skin from the inside, demanding a release onto paper

That we cannot always give because of how it floods through our brains

Muddling all thought as an undeserved punishment

Stories that come with knots, catching and twisting when we finally put them into words

Tangling our sense of logic and cutting into the darkest corners of our creativity

And we can never free them. Instead we can only prepare for when they finally burst out

Ripping free as intestines and gut spill over our already bloodied fingers

They run wild, overflowing the set lines we had prepared to contain them

Going in directions that both horrify and enthrall us

But despite this newly found liberty, they refuse to leave us

Instead, they crawl through every vein, seizing control of our thoughts, minds and bodies

These stories are the ones that keep us up at night

Pulling at the triggers that release what you call inspiration

Flooding over and suffocating us at the most inoperable times

And we often have multiple, all demanding to be written at the same time

You may catch a writer complaining, that he or she never has time enough to write

But the truth is, we might be avoiding it on purpose

And after all I've said, can you really blame us?

It's terrifying. Stories like these have the power to turn us inside out

Exposing the darkest depths of our soul in every ink-black word

A sharp contrast to the pale cream paper, smooth and firm underneath our shaking fingers

Months, years pass, and the story weakens over time but doesn't relinquish its hold

Finally, pen in hand can we reign in the story's end

Having served our sentence, fulfilled its demands

Only then will the tide shift, and the struggle for power turn in our favor

A final burst of writing, and we hack away the final strings that held us captive

Winning the war with the final strokes, The End

But the cost to rid or cleanse ourselves of these stories is almost too high a price to pay

Leaving them leaves us unsatisfied, what now?

We come back to them, time after time, day after day

Editing, revising, tearing out entire chapters that once held more power over us then you can even imagine

And yet we may never finish them

Always changing the plot, revising characters and fixing dialogue

All those late nights in bed, weeping for these make-believe people and the problems that we give them

The lies we make them tell, the betrayals and harsh words

You can't tell me these things aren't real- how can something only fiction cause so much pain?

But they are our creations, and we would never take them back.

 

Comments

Crescent Moon 180

I really like the use of figurative language and the whole poem overall is good.

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