Sep 2014
It's a question I dreaded as much as any other .
It was always a simple one to ask and often the hardest most ******* annoying question to answer.
They seldom cared it was more like what they were expected to ask and I loathed the looks they gave when they asked it.
It was a mix of this idiot doesn't even make sense how could he be anything more than a ***.
That and well guess there's no need in asking does he work for a living.
My answer was always the same and it seldom was the answer they themselves thought they wanted to hear.
I write about life.
How do you mean?, they would always ask confused as I was on how to answer this simplistic question.
I write about the people that fill the bar the ones that judge outside the bar, the women long since who have become bitter and the drunks who are just happy to catch a buzz.
I write bout the ******* who thrive off the misery of others and the cruel ******* who break those same ******* all the same.
I write about myself cause I truly don't give a **** to know about you .
I just write because I exist.
And I write for I am a writer .
I paused to see the look that although the face was different the look was all to familiar.
Umm okay well I wish you the best.
The woman said as she turned and simply walked away wishing only to distance herself from the man who she could not tell if he was insulting her or just to caught up in his own ******* to give a dam to begin with.
I had to laugh to myself for even though I was far from a people person sometimes I wish only to know this answer to this ******* question that followed me like some dark cloud.
My work always spoke for itself but it thrived separate from the man few people truly know .
And with me I always preferred to be distant from the reader.
I had been writing for as long as I could remember but those around me would truly have no clue if you asked them about my work.
And honestly that's how I prefer it.
The pen and the page hold magic and me I simply hold a drink.
Two forces that exist as one but make no mistake are greatly separate by design .
I would rather people know the illusion than the fool behind the curtain.
For when after they read the writer.
Seldom if by some strange chance we met did they ever ask so what do you write?
It was always a simple one to ask and often the hardest most ******* annoying question to answer.
They seldom cared it was more like what they were expected to ask and I loathed the looks they gave when they asked it.
It was a mix of this idiot doesn't even make sense how could he be anything more than a ***.
That and well guess there's no need in asking does he work for a living.
My answer was always the same and it seldom was the answer they themselves thought they wanted to hear.
I write about life.
How do you mean?, they would always ask confused as I was on how to answer this simplistic question.
I write about the people that fill the bar the ones that judge outside the bar, the women long since who have become bitter and the drunks who are just happy to catch a buzz.
I write bout the ******* who thrive off the misery of others and the cruel ******* who break those same ******* all the same.
I write about myself cause I truly don't give a **** to know about you .
I just write because I exist.
And I write for I am a writer .
I paused to see the look that although the face was different the look was all to familiar.
Umm okay well I wish you the best.
The woman said as she turned and simply walked away wishing only to distance herself from the man who she could not tell if he was insulting her or just to caught up in his own ******* to give a dam to begin with.
I had to laugh to myself for even though I was far from a people person sometimes I wish only to know this answer to this ******* question that followed me like some dark cloud.
My work always spoke for itself but it thrived separate from the man few people truly know .
And with me I always preferred to be distant from the reader.
I had been writing for as long as I could remember but those around me would truly have no clue if you asked them about my work.
And honestly that's how I prefer it.
The pen and the page hold magic and me I simply hold a drink.
Two forces that exist as one but make no mistake are greatly separate by design .
I would rather people know the illusion than the fool behind the curtain.
For when after they read the writer.
Seldom if by some strange chance we met did they ever ask so what do you write?
