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Apr 2017
It's funny,
being a writer.
Some days it's all
you want to do
but can't pull a word
through the fog
in your mind.

Or is that
just me?

Just write anyway
they say.
But some days
it feels foreign
to even hold
a pen.  

I don't quite know
how I got here.
To this day.
To the person I am.
With this mind
so dependent
on words,
on poetry,
on art.
As crucial to my wellbeing
as food,
as water,
as sleep.

No matter how much
I sleep,
I'm tired.

No matter how much
I eat,
or don't eat,
I'm self conscious.

No matter how much
I drink,
I should drink more.

No matter how much
I write,
I paint,
I draw,
I'm empty.
Never satiated.
Always grasping
and never reaching.
But for what?
I don't know.

I have this quirk
where I write words
in the air
with my finger
as I say them,
think them,
read them.
Consciously
and unconsciously.

I don't quite know
how it got there
but it feels right
and necessary.
Like when I
double check,
or triple check,
the light switches.

If I don't eat,
drink,
or sleep,
science says
I'll die.

Well I haven't
tested that theory,
but I do know
that without words,
without art,
I'll burn.

And that sounds
an awful lot
like dying
to me.

So I'll write,
I'll paint,
I'll draw,
religiously,
like a morning
cup of coffee,
and a 7am alarm
before I burn.
Free writing
Beau Grey
Written by
Beau Grey
377
   J
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