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Oct 2018
Stored up enough,
but the energy now takes on its
own purpose.
If only I could draw;
I'd create picture books
on exactly what the ending looks like.
Rough sketches left collecting
for many months,
before I ever once thought of putting
color to them.

The why, would be as mind trancing
as tracing catch phrases into the many
levels of dust accumulated.
I'd write something so clichΓ©, like,
"With this oily finger I remove the collection of time."
or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut
through time."
I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget
where I left off, and distract myself
again with writing.

A small recluse emotion of mine
objects viciously, but my attention to every
words incentive laced meaning would
leave the visual to again rest unchanged,
not colored.

So's the plight of one who likes to think
himself an artist. There's that scandalous
narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up,
reminding you just how beautiful your words
are, and how small in intellect those who
don't get it are.
Upon that shelf your pictures sit.
I can only write as a narrator,
because our "philosopher,"
"philanthropist of word volley, our
genius of word play,"
is once again too caught up in the
descriptors to finish the real
picture.

Not that this idea will stand the
test of time, but I do believe more
writers will commit suicide, selfishly
of course.
Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing
so enigmatically that no one gets
your "deep soul."

While upon that shelf,
within a fiber of your overrun
writer's ego, there's a drawing begging
to be finished, colored, maybe even
shared.

But just where does it reside?
Did the alternate you place it
in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found?
If it's too early it just can't be worth it,
can it?

He'll have to learn to put down the pen,
rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers,
set up an easel, squeeze out some paint,
and realize there are other mediums
where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations.
Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist,
sweeping arm, no words, images
are now your letter blocks to construct with.

Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen.
Stop being so foolish "Writer man,"
if your ego clings too sharply to words,
simply remind it,
"This could be another pen name."
"...I love that idea, what would it be?"
"Narcissist Ugly."

"So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
Christopher Miller
Written by
Christopher Miller  42/M/Florida
(42/M/Florida)   
  1.7k
 
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