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?

her iron words rusted in the rain
so we had to sit in the hot afternoon
restoring the image she had painted with a sweet turn of phrase
dazzled by the sunlight i did not see
so she played it back for me
so slow and sweet if you listen real close
to the sound of her viper pen scratch the dry page
hear it dragged over like an old man scraping his dead skin
how lovely the dance between dark and light
wrong and right

and she says....
now i stretch my limbs
step so boldly like a cheshire and do it slow so it looks
like i got graceful art to my ways
wrap myself up in laces and wine
keep my smile dark and my lovin eyes on you
while i step over the cracks in the sanity of it
sip the cool liquids with a careful symmetry
sway to the lovely song
and wait for you to show me the way

because as a girl she doesn't want appear to be too bold
lest she find her bed cold
so dance slow with her slow my friend
because she will love a gentle breeze
more than a wicked wind
show your strengths in your hesitations
show your moonlight harbinger before you
show her your dark dreams
she needs to know you are evolved
beyond schoolboy charms

so dance real slow
and romance yourself with her beauty
if you stay she will liberate the lace
let you into the palace
let you into her long hot summer day
scrape you with viper pen

Shhh!
I'm straining to hear
(I admit, this is my greatest fear)
thundering, rolling silence
boulders loosened
parched from a dry spell
not able to find the words to tell
nor a drop in the hollow well
a writers ramblings that freely clutter
thoughts, ideas, those clever lines I mutter
All taken for granted, perhaps there's just nothing more
needing to be said, it never before felt like a chore
Comfortable as clockwork, like a heartbeats drum
Absent, broken, chaotic ideas now that make me look dumb
A river of words, a waterfall of passion, that carries me
taken by the current now lost at sea
Dry and dammed, a beavers work,
also called 'writers block', a place where evil idleness may lurk
Reassured by friends and family to not worry
it will be back and come in a flurry
But they don't hear the voice
or comprehend inspiration is not a choice
Yet I should confess
I am responsible for this lazy mess
It's not as though I haven't tried
"I wrote a little today," I lied.
Sterile white paper mirroring my thoughts, blank stares
inky shapes, pixels, sans serif, no one cares
Interrupted by any distraction
Even the most tedious jobs holds some attraction
Mopping, scrubbing, fluffing, dusting
Acid in those scribbled notes on torn paper rusting
**** in chair with rolling fingertips like the roll of a drum
Waiting for that muse, my writing voice to come...

Someday I hope somebody
Finds the missing page and says,
"She's the murderer!
Didn't I say so? Didn't I tell you all?"

I don't pretend to be a closed book.
I'm so open my spine is loose, falling apart.
I've been opened and slammed shut more times than I can count.
Pages are falling out of me and I can't put them back.

Cursor jumping on the page,
Rage with interest—fidgeting,
Waiting for words
To fall into place.

Each syllable
Clamoring for attention,
Jostling, bumping into one another.

Wringing out words,
Winding down the page.