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.