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May 28, 2024

A man with a plan

To avoid a stock vocoid

Calls for vocab aid

Bankrupt of succor

Finds surplus 25 strict

Thinks most will also

So abolish a

Singular complication

Invariably

Stay cognizant of

Implications and backlash

From such thoughts from all

Focus on your goal

Your ink sans a fifth symbol

Spawns your own story

I have a box

Hidden in the dark recesses

Of my soul,

It's there I lay my shameful,

Regretful thoughts and deeds.

My box remains securely safe

From peering eyes, judgement,

And all scorn;

’Tis where echoes fight for life

Amongst ever encroaching weeds.

One day

When I am strong and brave

I’ll swiftly strike a match and set it ablaze,

Then inhale the bitter stench of smoke

As I watch the inferno with glee.

Yes, one day

When I am strong and brave

I’ll discard this indentured box of mine,

Choosing within my soul, therein,

To grow flowers in lieu of clinging weeds.

To hang my honor in shame.

See the unworn cap, left nigh?

the hallway hook calls my name.

It's a silence most profane,

tilt of brim, half to deny...

To hang my honor in shame.

Of all good deeds, most mundane

sits the pillbox by, and bye—

The hallway hook calls my name.

And calls the dark like a Dame,

to our dust that now doth fly,

"To hang my honor in shame!"

One fine gesture might remain,

to yet beg the conscience, why:

the hallway hook calls my name?

As all the worlds' stage proclaim

indecision's plateau's high—

To hang my honor in shame...

the hallway hook calls my name.

Broken, crushed, shattered ; pieces of the mind lay scattered.

Searching for the precise desighn, near or far it's hard to find.

Flooding thoughts turn into tears, making the screams hard to hear.

To play a toxic game that isn't fair, drowning, suffocating & lonely, it's scary up there.

Racing doubts of was I right or wrong, fool me to think I would ever be strong.

Fighting demons in my head, the voices and laughter slowly spread.

Sometimes the thoughts are hard to resist, upon action pleading cries of "it doesn't have to end like this".

A little change to notice how we feel, spoken out, we start to heal.

Crushed and scratched, this is me ; my broken mind is truly lovely.

When you live in the world I'm living in,  a world where money and appearance speak and you lack of the two,  you'd realize that writing is everything you got that is free that would give you a ticket to be heard.  That's why I write to express my opinions,  my feelings, knowledge,  faith that can't be heard by the loud world empowered by money and beauty.  

Rarely am I disappointed in my characters. They can be mischievous, some are funny, sexy, some make me laugh while others are plain out the most evil person I've ever met. Oh wait a moment, they're in my head.

I love writing, I write everyday. It is part of my life. Some writers say they have to discipline themselves. Why? Writing should never be treated as though it is a job although I put in over forty hours a week. Why, because it defines who I am as a person. Imagine for a moment writing a story that climbs up the charts. Wouldn't that be exciting? What an adventure!

What kind of book would one have to write? I'm not a chaser. Ideas hit me, I outline, I walk and think, I see things. Sometimes after all that I discard them because they didn't talk to me. Let me not forget, I study other authors, a lot. Today is better than yesterday and tomorrow will be better than today.

I have a schedule, I know when the next book is coming out and the next one after that. In between, I write. Maybe I've got a brain tumor?