A writer sits, thinking. A writer looks up, considers the world. A writer sits, thinking about thinking. A writer writes a letter, burns the letter, writes another. A writer writes a book, buries the book. A writer sips on their coffee, a writer sips on someone else’s tragedy. A writer sells a sentence, swells with pride as strangers passingly read their writing.

The stranger reads on, forgets the sentence. A writer is hurt. Forgotten, a writer bleeds a little.

Bloody, a writer sits, floundering in obscurity. In anger a writer yells: But look! My words! Look how well I’ve arranged them! Take note of the style, the whimsy, the precise word choice! A writer sinks, mutters: It’s really something special, the way I said that. The way I say things so neat, so silly, so good. Sunk; a writer writes another sentence.

A writer reads their sentence. A writer winces. A writer rereads their sentence. A writer doesn’t understand what they have said. A writer reads half of their sentence, reads their sentence backwards, forwards, upside down. A writer’s chest burns, a writer’s throat tightens. A writer is consumed with hate. A writer loathes their own writing. A writer sets fire to their notebook. A writer falls to the ground, yells from the pool of ashes: The shame! The horror! I am too embarrassed to pen another word! I am a pathetic pest, I am a fool, I am a stain! Oh the disgrace, wasting ink on my writing, wasting paper on my dreams.

A writer lays, crying. A writer opens their eyes, eyelashes heavy with ash and salt they see themselves. Awake and alone under a broken desk, under a leaking roof, under a cloudy night. A writer sits up. From the floor a writer looks at the world, much bigger from this angle. A writer fumbles for a pen. A writer finds an old check, a napkin, an unpaid bill. A writer psychotically scribbles. Illegible hallucinations etched into every unused inch of paper. A writer falls asleep on the floor, cradled by their obsession.

A keyboard sorely creaks every night, a keyboard pops its back every morning. A calendar smirks on the wall, letting due dates cut in line. The chirping clock mercilessly keeps time, a hundred beats per minute while the writer can’t play any faster than ninety.

A writer sits, thinking. A writer sits, thinking about writing. A writer lives their life longing for a pen and paper but has no idea what to do with it once it’s in their hands. A writer musters up a sentence. A writer squeezes out a paragraph. A writer sits, beating themselves to death vowel by vowel, word by word. A writer bleeds on their keyboard, a writer rots in their chair. A writer performs self-immolation every night when they again set fire to their diary. A writer craves martyrdom. A writer craves an audience to witness their self-crucifixion.

A writer is sick: impulsive but calculated, psychotic but lucid, obsessive but distracted, vain but overwhelmed by their self loathing. A writer is an addict hooked on their own adjectives.

A writer writes obsessively, hunched over and clawing at college-ruled notebooks. A writer writes without reason, without structure, without direction. A writer writes poorly and quickly and constantly. A writer implodes then explodes. A writer oozes, pusses, pours. A writer slits their stomach and publishes what comes out.

A writer sits, thinking about thinking. A writer sells a sentence. A writer trades a paragraph. A writer is always embarrassed, a writer is always proud. A writer is condemned to this life: writing. A writer will write while they laugh, while they cook, while they clean, shower, and shit. A writer writes out of necessity. A writer may sit staring at a blank page for hours, may sit thinking for days. But a writer knows they must pour something onto the page. A writer is held captive until they have carved a sentence from their buzzing thoughts. A writer will find a way to write if you cut off their hands and feet. If you beat them nearly to death, a writer will paint their poem with the tip of their bloody nose. A writer will sit, thinking; a writer will sit, bleeding. But a writer will inevitably write.


June 6

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