Laid to Rest
Finger on the trigger, hand on the pen.
The romantic say words are stronger, sword is weaker then.
I felt like I’ve been laid to rest sleeping in my artistic grave, chipping away at stories and poems because the urge to create is back, I came from the Cali now I’m southbound and down but this desire to murder a page got me feeling like Wes Craven- satisfy the
Rage.
Stephen King wrote that and what a tragedy it came true too many times to be fiction, may as well be taken like dictation, how many more shootings can happen during a pandemic?
It’s enough to make me sick, enough to drive me to the edge to drink, stomach sick, heartbroken, vomit in the sink.
On the brink of society based depression, aggression up, suppression up, but the pressure keeps locking me up, draining my energy so all I’ve got to do is sleep deep and hope that tomorrow we get some sanity back.
Books hardly sell, like a doomsday preacher, street sign apocalyptic prophet I stand in the town square and yell.
Bullet based precision, but I spray like an AK, the finer points I use a ballpoint sniper rifle so I can pin the point I’m making and then I throw your bloodhound comprehension off track with a reference, so I move from A to B then loop around and connect the dots, you’ve seen it before when I leave these fanfiction writers in chalk.
Chalkboard like I take em to class, call me the Professor cause I’m giving out F’s.
I feel like I’ve been laid to rest to early, but I only laid down to recharge my batteries and the years flew by without me working, I was burnt out of thought, now the gears are turning.
I wrote six books in two years, released five, then repelled three. Now I’m working on two more with plans to republish and release all of them. Plus, I fell out with friend and in love with a former stranger, I lived through the ongoing pandemic plus a freak snowstorm, now I’m back to the grind, climbing out of the grave to soldier down in the social trench, this battle is on, meanwhile you’re still stuck on title page one.
I gave you all the tools to work, told you how to sit down and motivate and self-publish, you sat around and waited for me to show up again, superman- I know when I’m needed.
A writer writes. Take notes class because once again I’ll wade through dark and deep waters to show you how again.
Mr. Masked man is back, the boogeyman of the page, the masked anti hero who writes as much as he raves, and I don’t chug whiskey anymore, now I sip and take my time to enjoy the finer things in life, but I still got these wolf teeth and a savage bite, predator of the poem, 87 skin you alive.
Headhunter, spine collector, trophy killer, broken ass writer with the addiction to fill pages with words until it reads like the dictionary drunk off punk rock and Beethoven- blurred.