Skip to main content

Pity For Those Who Don't Write

There are people who don't have pens randomly hidden in every room, every jacket, every purse finding them in the strangest of places like under your pillow, by the sink, in an empty bowl in the kitchen cabinet, sometimes even in a shoe 
for the spontaneous ideas that must be written down at once. 

There are people who don't wake up in the middle of the night, struck with inspiration, and stay up the rest of the night, writing their hearts out. 

There are people who don't have random lines, that make little sense -except to the writer-
written on their hand. 

There are people who don't have their characters on paper haunting them. Butting into every thought they have, until the writer finished writing their story. 

There are people who get sleep every single night with no thoughts of imaginary worlds sprouting in their heads, keeping them awake. They have no push from that magnificent imaginary word to stay up all night writing about the complex worlds inside their head. 

There are people who don't get stressed about writing an entire chapter and sometimes more,
then deciding it was complete crap,
before starting completely over. 
They don't stress about not having enough time to write and keep grades up. 

And I pity them. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

"I'll Be There"

Everyone always says "If you ever need me, I'll be there." But when I do need someone, when I crying my eyes out in the corner thinking of bringing the blade out once again, when I can't find the motivation to get out of bed, when nothing feels right and all I want to do is cry and have someone tell me it's okay, nobody's there. Never. So how am I supposed to believe you when you say "Trust me, I'll be there no matter what. All you have to do is call.", but when I do call, you're busy or ignore the ringing? How am I supposed to tell you when something is wrong when you never listen for the goddamn ringing?

My Late Confession

Maybe you light up my day.  Maybe you make me smile through the darkness in my head.  Maybe you make my stone cold heart beat again.  Maybe you woke up the butterflies in my stomach and make them dance every time you touch me.  Maybe I like you a hell of a lot more than I've let on but maybe I'm afraid to be close.  Maybe it's because I'm afraid to lose you. 

Living Art

I'm a fucking masterpiece with my chipped nail polish, pudgy tummy, touching thighs, unbrushed hair, smudged eyeliner, and faded lipstick. I may look a wreck, but that's just me. And I am a piece of art.