Consumed

I get it. I am looking at writing contests and places to publish and its already changing what I write. Like they have requirements and topics and I am writing but now its in response to them.

This will be harder, getting published will bias my work. I have to be thoughtful about this.

Something is pouring out of me, a violence and a pent up creativity that has been years in the making. I am exploding onto paper and dripping blood from all these gashes.

Have I restrained myself so much? I see an image of barbed wire wrapped around someone in a cocoon. Flesh stippled in bloody lines.

Napoleon Hill says there is a mine in each of us. A deep rich vein of minerals and we must find it. Must discover its subterranean depths and rip it out of the ground. Excavate it. That it is the only way to live and one who has not found their minerals has not lived. Has wasted their life above the ground.

Only this is a volcano. I sank a pickaxe into the ground experimentally and it shot out into the air. Now I am running from the lava.

Or am I

Consumed.