Angela threw her bag onto the couch. Plopping down beside it, and laying back.

“What’s wrong, good buddy,” Viper said from her spot in the office chair.

“I had a poetry class today. I can’t write a thing. I don’t understand it.” Angela said. Reaching into her bag for a snack.

“You’re probably approaching it the wrong way.” Viper started spinning the chair around. Abandoning the work open on her laptop.

“Oh, I forgot. My roommate is a poet, artist, novelist, and just good at everything.” Angela groaned. Lying down, and shoving a cookie in her mouth.

“Wrong again good buddy. Knowing dihydrogen monoxide is water, doesn’t make me a chemist. Knowing the formula for poetry doesn’t make me a poet.” Viper stopped spinning. Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on her knees. “You will learn the technical bits, and applying that can make for good poetry. Great poetry, however, comes from something else.” Viper reached down, grabbing a notebook. She tossed it onto the couch beside Angela.

“A novel builds. You build your emotions for it. You learn to have feelings over time, but poetry is made of feelings.” Viper leaned back in her chair while Angela looked through the notebook.

“A lot of this is really bad.” Angels snickered at Viper’s attempt at poetry.

“Hell yeah it is, but you still feel my emotion. You feel it, because that’s where they came from. You don’t have to think for your heart to know.” Viper laced her fingers behind her head. “You write what you feel, you’ll get it right every time.”

Hello!

I am quite embarrassed after getting some recognition on this site. I hadn't done any real work on my profile, and all of you kind people followed me. So let me introduce myself.

I am Dezz. A blind writer, painter, fur mom, big sister, and advocate for artists with disabilities. I believe a disability gives you a unique view on life that no one else could possibly understand. Two people with the same disability never have the same experiences. This allows us to have a perspective unlike any other person on Earth.

I love my work, and I love sharing it with everyone around me. If I am never to be published; I will be happy knowing I've made people smile.

Just Once.

I hope you smile.

Shadows dance around you

Do you hear their song?

Their tendrils touch your soft flesh

Do you feel their sadness?

Their voices ring like soft bells in the wind

Always existing, never loved

Their hearts yern

They ache for life

Keep yours safe

From the shadows who dance

Stars glitter and glint

My hands shiver and shake

There isn't much time left

I hate to wait

The silence fills the air

An echo from nowhere

The stars glitter

My hands shake

I scrub my hands over my face. "Writing has just become so hard since everything came out." I say, leaning back in my chair. "My family, my friends. They used to all read my work with excitement. Now all I see in their eyes is pity." I lace my fingers behind my head, closing my eyes.

"I mean, what are they supposed to think?" Angela took a bite of her pudding before continuing. "You write horror. Mostly involving female leads, with male antagonists. You even go as far as making the monsters the hero. No one is supposed to read into that?" I roll my eyes, and put my feet up on the round table in front of us.

"Oh right. My mistake for thinking people could look at my art, without my life being involved." I wiggle my toes. A smirk touches my lips, as a look of disgust passes over Angela's face.

"Viper, you literally spend every day trying to be the exact opposite of what people

expect." Angela gestures to me with an open hand. "For fuck sake, you call your style neon goth. How do those things even go together?" I shrug, letting my foot fall to the floor..

"Neon goth is going to blow up. Just wait." I lean forward, and rest my arms on the table. "Life is too hard to not be yourself. I don't care if that means I blow off all expectations. I'm having fun."

"Then just have fun with writing too. Just pretend you can see less than you actually can when they read your work. Not like they'll know the difference." Angela smiled.

"Hey now! Why did you go and bring my sight into it?" I laugh. "Got any more pudding?"

This was a question I had never asked myself. I had to think for a while to really understand it. To me writing is story telling., but that really isn’t what it is.

Writing is a form of expression, in a similar way to speaking. writing can be used to communicate, to vent emotions that you don’t want anybody else to see, or to write down something you want to remember for later. Being a good writer however, that was an entirely new thought.

Good writing can bring you to a whole other world. A well written character pulls at your heart strings, you smile when you see a well written article about children planting trees.

What does good writing mean? What does it mean to us? What does it matter? Good writing helps us make an emotional connection to the subject we are reading about. Good writing helps us identify with parts of ourselves we like to hide. Good writing brings us that much closer to something we can only dream of.

Good writing should matter, because it means something. Even if we don’t see it, good writing helps us in ways us readers can’t get enough of. Good writing means hope, love, heart break, compassion, and so much more.