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Connor Apr 2016
Let's see..

..there's the writer who never gave a **** about anybody but himself

..and the writer who had a fetish for pouring melted candlewax onto her own toes, while being watched by her cat

..and the writer who owned a chimpanzee named Tom, one afternoon when the writer wasn't home, Tom frenzied around the house chasing down a moth, this caused obvious concern to the neighbors, who heard the commotion last for an hour or maybe more, ah well..

..and the writer who began experimenting with a dream machine, but stopped upon feeling his brain's physical presence within his own skull, weighty, and terrifyingly colorful!

..and the writer who did the same thing, except kept going and found herself bored with it after a while anyways

..and the writer who broke down out front of a Walgreens in reaction to a phone call detailing a nearby tragedy involving two cars + a logging truck (and a tad of ******* but shhhhh) grief was part of that performance, but also in knowing he may have been directly responsible for the crash (coke was given by him, to the driver)

..and the writer who experienced the best ****** of his life without even a single poke of physical contact to his ****!

..and the writer who became addicted to biting her knuckles, to the point she needed to see someone about it

..and the writer who filed for divorce after finding out that his lover had caught numerous ****** infections/diseases (and only having been told by their cousin, too! probably from two recent trips to South America unbeknownst to their partner)

..and the writer who had a hobby of taking photographs of lampshades of varying textures, ages, sizes, and which emitted sometimes very exotic colors from the bulb inside.

..and the writer who never left his city, due to a paralyzing fear of travel

..and the writer who fell in love with another writer who was in love with someone else (as is usually the case)

..and the writer who passed away yesterday
..and the writer who will pass away tomorrow

..and the writer who admired the work of Charles Bukowski and tried too hard to be like Charles Bukowski, at the peril of those around him

..and the writer who's family hasn't messaged her in a few months now, and continues to wonder why

..and the writer who's favorite song was "I'm So Happy (Tra La La)" by Lewis Lymon & The Teen Chords, though in reality she was never happy (let alone SO happy) and often played the song as a front to convince herself that everything would be just fine

..and the writer who never knew they were a writer and never wrote anything in their life but **** it if they did!

..and the writer who's favorite month was July, favorite day Saturday, and time of day at around 2pm

..and the writer who's last words were never written down or heard by anyone outside their secluded office to which he screamed "HELP!!!" and then died from heart attack

..and the writer who actually lived only three blocks away and was good friends with the guy, and found his door unlocked and the smell came first

..and the writer who found it funny to imagine getting involved in certain scenarios inappropriately contrasted with specific songs, settings, or themes. An example: funerals where everyone shows up in clown costumes, sunbathing in the Arctic, being invited to a nice dinner and the restaurant is playing loud shoegaze music, closely befriending the person you hate the most in the world just to see if you can, and bringing a large cage of parrots to see a movie with you

..and the writer who really DID some of those things mentioned above (I won't say which)

..and the writer who wrote about all these other writers (me)

..and the writer who may be reading about all these other writers (you)
Thomas Harper Oct 2014
A writer writes.  
A writer writes when he wants to
and when he doesn't.  
A writer writes when he is inspired
and when he isn't.  
A writer writes when the words are flowing from his mind like moisture off of a waterfall
and when the words are as scarce as republicans in Boston.  
A writer writes because he is a writer,
not because there are people who will cheer him on when he is finished.  
Sure, most writers dream of the cheers,
but a writer who will be a writer tomorrow
is one who writes even when the fans don’t show up.  
A writer writes when everything looks hopeless
and when everything is falling into place.  
A writer writes as a baby coohs.  
A writer writes as a child plays.  
A writer writes as a teenager dreams.  
And a writer writes as a grownup worries.  
A writer isn't a writer because he was chosen.  
A writer writes because it is what he has chosen.  
What does a writer write when the words are scarce?  
Many scarce words.  
What does a writer write when the words are abundant?  
Words in abundance.  
A writer doesn't wait for inspiration to hit,
he writes until inspiration catches up with him.  
A writer doesn't write only when the muse is on duty,
he writes until the muse feels shamed and shows up.  
A writer does not seek fame,
though fame often seeks writers.  
A writer does not seek fortune,
though fortune too often seeks writers.  
A writer doesn't seek anything but the satisfaction of writing,
for fame and fortune are fickle and writing only for them leads to many a blank page.  
If I write something meaningful and it is not accepted,
is it no longer meaningful?  
If I write words never before combined,
will people rave over my originality,
or complain about my lack of skill?  
I am a writer and so it doesn't really matter.
Hinata Jul 2014
a writer gets their inspiration from anywhere,
a writer can have details written with flare.
a writer can see every little thing and detail,
a writer can unleash mystery like a veil.
a writer can hear these words and their thoughts and taste,
a writer sometimes have to write with much haste.
a writer can lose that inspiration with a blink of a eye,
a writer knows that some things take time.
a writer can discard these senses and focus on what they feel,
a writer can make a persons mind reel.
a writer is like an artist,
a writer can produce a picture with such a twist.
a writer can lose themselves so easily,
a writer can become touchy feely.
a writer must go through an inevitable block,
a writer shouldn't be made fun of or mocked.
a writer uses a block to experience and try new things,
a writer can get new inspiration as fast as a ring.
a writer is different, they can see things different than any of their fellow man,
but a writer is most definitely a human.
meh i just had a brief moment of inspiration, i know its not good but i would like to know what you guys think
Cailey Weaver Jan 2014
I'm a writer because I think in third person.
I'm a writer because I've always got a pen somewhere.
I'm a writer because I imagine a story for every situation.
I'm a writer because there are always bits of paper in my hair.

I know I'm a writer when I talk to my imaginary friends at night.
My fictional characters sing me to sleep.
Instead of calling my friends, I hang out with my dictionary.
I know I'm a writer because my head is always off in some cloud.

I'm a writer because I've got twenty notebooks.
I'm a writer because every one of those books are full.
I'm a writer because I'm closer to my characters than to my family.
I'm a writer because I know there's always one more finger to pull.

I know I'm a writer when my favorite memories are the ones on paper.
The words in my head are my very best friends.
Instead of going to parties, I read my favorite book again.
I know I'm a writer because that is who I've been since forever.

I'm a writer because I have a notebook of vocabulary words.
I'm a writer because I started collecting them for fun.
I'm a writer because words bow at my command.
I'm a writer because that is who I am.
It doesn't matter where I go in life or who I'll someday be...
I'll always be a writer, and that is what means most to me.
Hannah Beasley Jan 2018
I know a writer
She seems like quite the fighter
her arms and legs are covered in scars        
But her eyes are so full of stars

I know a writer
Whose future couldn't be brighter
that always seems so sad
Or maybe just a bit mad

I know a writer
Who couldn’t shoot higher
She always looks up on her strolls
For the sky holds all her goals

I know a writer
Sleepless over her typewriter
She often falls asleep in class
But, she has a smile that could cut glass

I know a writer
Who frequents the overnighter
Sleep to her is a foreign ideal
She knows not how it can heal

I know a writer
Who is quick to tire
An hour or two
It’s ever so true

I know a writer
Who's not an outsider
So full of compassion
She runs with a faction

I know a writer
And she's kinda a whiner
Loud and proud
Much like a storm cloud

I know a writer
She's nothing more than a cipher
With her secret codes
Hidden in all of her odes

I know a writer
Who couldn’t be nicer
Always smiling at strangers
She's a real game changer

I know a writer
Who fights like a tiger
She’s stronger than most
But she isn’t one to boast

I know a writer
Who bites like a viper
She can be malignant
But only if you’re distant

I know a writer
And this may seem minor
But her vivid imagination
leads to the beauty of creation

I know a writer
Who couldn’t be wiser
With a heart for spoken word
Though she’s often left unheard
Sleepz Aug 2014
Everything a writer says,
takes deep thought and is very careful when it comes to words,
each word is special because the writer picks it.
Fall in love with a writer and the writer will show you who you are,
even things you don't know about yourself.
The writer will paint a canvas with words
and will paint a picture of your face on a mountain
with the sunset all around it
the sky your favorite colors
mixed with the soft yellow of the sun,
that makes your face feel so warm,
you never want to go home.

A writer will make you cry,
for reasons you won't comprehend.
A writer will cheer you up,
it only takes a sentence to make you smile.
And when a writer finally breaks your heart,
you'd wish that he would stay for a while.
You would grab the pieces and say, "Please fix this."
When the writer tells you "I'm sorry i can't.."
You will feel as if you've lost the person that gave your life meaning,
you will feel like you weren't good enough for the one perfect person.

The writer as an artist,
as well as an actor.
The writer is a killer,
and a writer's soul is black,
with poison running through the veins.
It'll make you hate,
It'll make you love,
It will drive you insane.
It will make you realize you have lost what makes you calm.

As a writer you'll find yourself speaking words that don't make sense,
one day you'll realize those words are what is on your mind,
once you understand them you'll know yourself better than anyone else,
you'll enter a world that's separated from reality
and your thoughts will become true to you,
the same as a person with schizophrenia
you'll suffer the way a person does when wanting to commit suicide,
and you'll laugh the way a clown laughs even when the jokes
are no longer funny.

Until then you will understand the complications
of falling in love,
you'll question if there is even love to begin with.
You'll find that there is,
and when your mom & dad told you,
that your husband would treat you like a Queen,
and you will have a castle it's true.
And at that time you'll realize that your parents are poets,
which is why you will forever fall in love with their words.
alliyah Dec 2018
Let me walk you through inside a writer's mind.

Aren't you curious?

How can someone write like that?
How can someone have those sick emotions?
How can someone be so dramatic?
How can someone be that suicidal?
How can someone be so sad?

You know what?
Being able to write about those things is a privilege.
If I have no one to talk to,
if I have no one to vent all my sentiments,
poems are going to slap me with a pen and a paper.
And i'm all good.
Once i've let go of that burning pen,
the moment I read what I wrote into that ****** paper.
My diaphragm finally relaxed,
I can finally breathe.

And when a writer doesn't have any inspiration,
that soul must do all thy take to feel everything and anything in order to fill those pages, those ****** pages.

You must value every word you read inside a poem or any kind of literature.

Because you didn't know what emotional ride that living flesh took just to serve you those burning hot raw words.

But aren't you curious?
Don't you want to know what it took?
What it took to serve those emotions to you?

A writer...
Scream, screamed like a mad sicko.

A writer...
Cry, cried like a new born baby.

A writer...
Laugh, laughed like there's no tomorrow.

A writer...
Burn, burned in their own oil.

A writer...
Slit, slitted thy skin and...

A writer...
Cut, cutted thy flesh and...

A writer...
Bleed, bleed until there's no more left.

Bleed until that living soul can write something.

A writer...
Is empty.

A writer...
Is a lost soul who can't find it's way back.

A writer...
Is dead... inside.

Then, viola!

A burning hot literature is served.

And that, my friend, is what inside a writer's mind.
wanna go deeper? nah, you probably shouldn't.
Firefly Sep 2014
“Discipline allows magic. To be a writer is to be the very best of assassins. You do not sit down and write every day to force the Muse to show up. You get into the habit of writing every day so that when she shows up, you have the maximum chance of catching her, bashing her on the head, and squeezing every last drop out of that *****.”
― Lili St. Crow

“What I try to do is write. I may write for two weeks ‘the cat sat on the mat, that is that, not a rat.’ And it might be just the most boring and awful stuff. But I try. When I’m writing, I write. And then it’s as if the muse is convinced that I’m serious and says, ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll come.’” — Maya Angelou

“Suggestions? Put it aside for a few days, or longer, do other things, try not to think about it. Then sit down and read it (printouts are best I find, but that’s just me) as if you’ve never seen it before. Start at the beginning. Scribble on the manuscript as you go if you see anything you want to change. And often, when you get to the end you’ll be both enthusiastic about it and know what the next few words are. And you do it all one word at a time.” — Neil Gaiman

“Meggie Folchart: Having writer's block? Maybe I can help.
Fenoglio: Oh yes, that's right. You want to be a writer, don't you?
Meggie Folchart: You say that as if it's a bad thing.
Fenoglio: Oh no, it's just a lonely thing. Sometimes the world you create on the page seems more friendly and alive than the world you actually live in.”
― David Lindsay-Abaire

“Now, what I’m thinking of is, people always saying “Well, what do we do about a sudden blockage in your writing? What if you have a blockage and you don’t know what to do about it?” Well, it’s obvious you’re doing the wrong thing, don’t you? In the middle of writing something you go blank and your mind says: “No, that’s it.” Ok. You’re being warned, aren’t you? Your subconscious is saying “I don’t like you anymore. You’re writing about things I don’t give a **** for.” You’re being political, or you’re being socially aware. You’re writing things that will benefit the world. To hell with that! I don’t write things to benefit the world. If it happens that they do, swell. I didn’t set out to do that. I set out to have a hell of a lot of fun.

I’ve never worked a day in my life. I’ve never worked a day in my life. The joy of writing has propelled me from day to day and year to year. I want you to envy me, my joy. Get out of here tonight and say: ‘Am I being joyful?’ And if you’ve got a writer’s block, you can cure it this evening by stopping whatever you’re writing and doing something else. You picked the wrong subject.” — Ray Bradbury at The Sixth Annual Writer’s Symposium by the Sea, 2001

“writing about a writer's block is better than not writing at all”
― Charles Bukowski, The Last Night of the Earth Poems

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
"Fool!" said my muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write.”
― Philip Sidney, Astrophel and Stella

“What I try to do is write. I may write for two weeks ‘the cat sat on the mat, that is that, not a rat.’ And it might be just the most boring and awful stuff. But I try. When I’m writing, I write. And then it’s as if the muse is convinced that I’m serious and says, ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll come.’” — Maya Angelou

“Suggestions? Put it aside for a few days, or longer, do other things, try not to think about it. Then sit down and read it (printouts are best I find, but that’s just me) as if you’ve never seen it before. Start at the beginning. Scribble on the manuscript as you go if you see anything you want to change. And often, when you get to the end you’ll be both enthusiastic about it and know what the next few words are. And you do it all one word at a time.” — Neil Gaiman

“I encourage my students at times like these to get one page of anything written, three hundred words of memories or dreams or stream of consciousness on how much they hate writing — just for the hell of it, just to keep their fingers from becoming too arthritic, just because they have made a commitment to try to write three hundred words every day. Then, on bad days and weeks, let things go at that… Your unconscious can’t work when you are breathing down its neck. You’ll sit there going, ‘Are you done in there yet, are you done in there yet?’ But it is trying to tell you nicely, ‘Shut up and go away.'” — Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

“Now, what I’m thinking of is, people always saying “Well, what do we do about a sudden blockage in your writing? What if you have a blockage and you don’t know what to do about it?” Well, it’s obvious you’re doing the wrong thing, don’t you? In the middle of writing something you go blank and your mind says: “No, that’s it.” Ok. You’re being warned, aren’t you? Your subconscious is saying “I don’t like you anymore. You’re writing about things I don’t give a **** for.” You’re being political, or you’re being socially aware. You’re writing things that will benefit the world. To hell with that! I don’t write things to benefit the world. If it happens that they do, swell. I didn’t set out to do that. I set out to have a hell of a lot of fun.

I’ve never worked a day in my life. I’ve never worked a day in my life. The joy of writing has propelled me from day to day and year to year. I want you to envy me, my joy. Get out of here tonight and say: ‘Am I being joyful?’ And if you’ve got a writer’s block, you can cure it this evening by stopping whatever you’re writing and doing something else. You picked the wrong subject.” — Ray Bradbury at The Sixth Annual Writer’s Symposium by the Sea, 2001

“The secret of getting ahead is getting started. The secret of getting started is breaking your complex overwhelming tasks into small manageable tasks, and then starting on the first one.” — Mark Twain

“The best way is always to stop when you are going good and when you know what will happen next. If you do that every day … you will never be stuck. Always stop while you are going good and don’t think about it or worry about it until you start to write the next day. That way your subconscious will work on it all the time. But if you think about it consciously or worry about it you will **** it and your brain will be tired before you start.” — Ernest Hemingway

“Many years ago, I met John Steinbeck at a party in Sag Harbor, and told him that I had writer’s block. And he said something which I’ve always remembered, and which works. He said, “Pretend that you’re writing not to your editor or to an audience or to a readership, but to someone close, like your sister, or your mother, or someone that you like.” And at the time I was enamored of Jean Seberg, the actress, and I had to write an article about taking Marianne Moore to a baseball game, and I started it off, “Dear Jean . . . ,” and wrote this piece with some ease, I must say. And to my astonishment that’s the way it appeared in Harper’s Magazine. “Dear Jean . . .” Which surprised her, I think, and me, and very likely Marianne Moore.” — John Steinbeck by way of George Plimpton

“Over the years, I’ve found one rule. It is the only one I give on those occasions when I talk about writing. A simple rule. If you tell yourself you are going to be at your desk tomorrow, you are by that declaration asking your unconscious to prepare the material. You are, in effect, contracting to pick up such valuables at a given time. Count on me, you are saying to a few forces below: I will be there to write.” — Norman Mailer in The Spooky Art: Some Thoughts on Writing

“[When] the thoughts rise heavily and pass gummous through my pen… I never stand conferring with pen and ink one moment; for if a pinch of ***** or a stride or two across the room will not do the business for me — … I take a razor at once; and have tried the edge of it upon the palm of my hand, without further ceremony, except that of first lathering my beard, I shave it off, taking care that if I do leave hair, that it not be a grey one: this done, I change my shirt — put on a better coat — send for my last wig — put my topaz ring upon my finger; and in a word, dress myself from one end to the other of me, after my best fashion.” — Laurence Sterne

“I learned to produce whether I wanted to or not. It would be easy to say oh, I have writer’s block, oh, I have to wait for my muse. I don’t. Chain that muse to your desk and get the job done.” — Barbara Kingsolver

“Writer’s block…a lot of howling nonsense would be avoided if, in every sentence containing the word WRITER, that word was taken out and the word PLUMBER substituted; and the result examined for the sense it makes. Do plumbers get plumber’s block? What would you think of a plumber who used that as an excuse not to do any work that day?

The fact is that writing is hard work, and sometimes you don’t want to do it, and you can’t think of what to write next, and you’re fed up with the whole **** business. Do you think plumbers don’t feel like that about their work from time to time? Of course there will be days when the stuff is not flowing freely. What you do then is MAKE IT UP. I like the reply of the composer Shostakovich to a student who complained that he couldn’t find a theme for his second movement. “Never mind the theme! Just write the movement!” he said.

Writer’s block is a condition that affects amateurs and people who aren’t serious about writing. So is the opposite, namely inspiration, which amateurs are also very fond of. Putting it another way: a professional writer is someone who writes just as well when they’re not inspired as when they are.” — Philip Pullman
Really stop waiting for your muse. These quotes came from various sources,thus including:Books Taking Up Space In The Bookshelf,Journals, and of course The Internet.
Days gone without writing: 9
preservationman Feb 2017
Pages that will be full of ideas
Yet also included will be some fears
A writer jolting down his life in what took place
There was a time in the Writer’s near Death
But time was on the Writer’s side
He can continue to write and reside
However, it will be the thoughts he will provide
Life is worth living
It’s the revolving time being the recordkeeping
A writer who was inspired by the night
It was also the moon and stars in plain sight
Now the Writer’s ideas that will shed some light
The time when the writer was attacked by a Bear
The attack wasn’t your average compare
The Writer who was caught by surprise, but didn’t even realize
The writer was attacked all covered in blood
The blood was pouring as if it was a flood
The writer was walking on the trail of the forest
Scare as the writer was, he managed to survive
The writer was so wounded to retreat
Medical attention is what got him on his feet
Thank God I am alive
The situation I will never forget
The writer’s notebook full of details, but being a full correspondent in giving what happened on the trail.
pluie d'été Apr 2014
to be a writer
smother your
racing thoughts
until they break through
their breath
unable to be extinguished
by your doubting fear

to be a writer
is to stay awake
until the sun starts
breaking apart the darkness
at the edge
of the earth's seam
with an full page
of words
that you won't be able to read
when you wake up
at noon

to be a writer
is to think
not only for yourself
but for every character
locked in your soul
trying to reach out
for their thoughts
and words
to stretch across
the lined

to be a writer
is to think
for everyone else
you know
and form thought bubbles
and back stories
for the strangers
you meet on the street

to be a writer
is to see the beautiful
in the ugly
and the ugly
in the beautiful

to be a writer
is to become hypnotized
by the parts
of the people
we smile at
their eyes
the way their fingertips
trace the rim
of their coffee cup

to be a writer
is to dream
and remember
to dream
and forget
we meant to say

to be a writer
is to read
a billion words
of a million
to memorize
the curve
of the pen in a sentence
the neat font
in a book
so much emptiness
that it fills you

to be a writer
is to choose to drown
in doubt
because all the stories
you read
and right-
even if they aren't
real life-
aren't always nice

to be a writer
is to love words
and to hate them
love him
or her
and to hate
or her
found in seperate others
a cycle
of their ghosts
haunting us
like the time
slipping away
too fast

to be a writer
is to choose drowning
over living
just to see
the sunlight
flickering through the waves
and feel how the shadows
it's absence feels across your skin

to be a writer
is to always begin
but sometimes
leave the end
Jade Bartlett May 2019
Ghost Writer cries.

But you can't hear her.

she can't even hear herself.
Or, at least,
she chooses not to;
she chooses to ignore
the sob caught in her throat
like a pill that's washed
down the wrong way.

Ghost Writer attempts
to swallow her sob
which then catapults
to the depths
of her stomach
where she can
reach it
(where she can never
fully tame it
to silence).

When Ghost Writer
studies her image
in the mirror,
she can't quite comprehend
the sight of her reflection.
The intricacies of
human life become blurred,
almost inconceivable.

Head tilts in
"so what ?"

Lashes flit against
shrinking pupils--
"these eyes are
vortexes of dream."

Breath respires from
mouth to mirror to fog
"I am not real..."

Ghost Writer's body is
tethered to the earth,
but her soul dwells elsewhere.

Heart pleads,
tries to convince her
of her own existence,
pounding with the force
of a Goddess' blood
against skeleton-key ribs.

But heart cannot
get through to her.

Heart is padlocked,
too far removed from subject,
like the monkey's heart
that "hung" in the
rose apple tree.

Phantom heart
for Phantom Woman.

But it is unclear
if Ghost Writer is the monkey
or the crocodile's wife
in our fable.

Ghost Writer is hungry,
but for what exactly
she hungers for,
she does not know.
She only knows that
she is barren
like the eye sockets
children cut out of
white bedsheets on Halloween.

The colour has been stripped
from the canvas of her creation.

Ghost Writer is
an unfulfilled masterpiece
(something will always be

So she picks up her quill
to make sense of
this senseless emptiness.

She writes and
she writes and
she writes and--
"How prolific!" they say.

all of these poems and
not a friend to her name.

Ghost Writer
sleepwalks through
the terror of this

She goes to grasp
the fingertips of those
she once knew--
those who once cared
Anchors to ground her
to the reality that
threatened to strand her.

A mass of beating vessels--
proof that, as long as they
are in her presence,
as long as they can offer her
the tentative connections
of their friendship,
she, too, is alive.

But when she reaches for them,
they pull away,
seamless as the air.

Ghost Writer breaks,
haunts the desolate
alleyways of her psyche
with the plagues of
her insecurities.
Self-esteem erodes
until she devolves
into her worst nightmare--


Ghost Writer disappears
(this time without redemption).

She leaves no souvenirs behind
to perpetuate her memory,
no tangible mementoes.

She leaves behind
only that which
will not be destroyed,
by fickle, selfish hands:

She leaves behind the

For even long after the
Vanishing Act has
resolved itself to the relics of
what has  been lost,
Ghost Writer shall
always have the last word.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
What I’ve Learned as a Writer
By Leo Babauta

I’ve been a professional writer since I was 17: so nearly 24 years now. I’ve made my living with words, and have written a lot of them — more than 10 million (though many of them were duplicates).

That means I’ve made a ton of errors. Lots of typos. Lots of bad writing.

Being a writer means I’ve failed a lot, and learned a few things in the process.

Now, some of you may be aspiring writers (or writers looking for inspiration from a colleague). Others might not ever want to be a writer, but you should still care about writing. I’ll tell you why: it’s an incredible tool for learning about yourself. And if you’re an effective writer, you’re an effective communicator, thinker, salesperson, businessperson, persuader.

So for anyone interested in writing, I’d love to share what I’ve learned so far.

    Write every **** day. Yes, even weekends. Yes, even when you’re busy with other crap. Each day I write a blog post, an article for Sea Change, part of my new book, or perhaps part of a novel. If I don’t have enough to write every day, I start a new writing project. I write at least 1,000 words a day, but you don’t have to write that much. Writing daily makes it a routine thing, so you never have to think about it. You just do it. It gets much easier, less intimidating. You get better at it. It’s like talking with a friend: just how you express yourself.
    Create a blog if you don’t have one. Whether or not you’re a writer, you should have a blog. Why? Because it’s a great way to reach an audience, to practice writing on a daily basis, to reflect on what you’ve been learning, to share that with others so they might benefit, to engage in a wider conversation, to learn about yourself. Anyone who wants to learn about themselves should have a blog. (Protip: Try Sett to start a blog — it’s a great way to grow an audience and community.)
    Write plainly. I think this is from Strunk & White, but it works well for me. I write in plain language, leaving the flowery stuff for others. Academic writing is the worst — it’s so stilted no one wants to read it unless they want to show others how smart they are. Technical jargon, business-speak, pretentious vocabulary, insider acronyms … none of them have any place in communicating with your fellow human beings. Only use those things if you want to hide the fact that you don’t know what you’re talking about.
    Don’t write just to hear yourself talk. Lots of people like to go on and on about themselves and their lives, but readers don’t come for that. Readers come for their own purposes. You’re reading this to get ideas for yourself as a writer, not to hear the life story of Leo the amazing writer in technicolor detail. Now, you can tell stories about yourself if they’re vividly entertaining or inspirational or really instructive. But have a purpose, and be sure you’re meeting that purpose. Don’t just ramble.
    Nearly everything can be shortened. Including this post, of course. I could probably cut 25% of this post and get away with it (I’ve already cut 25%). Go through your sentences and ask: is this necessary? What purpose does it serve? How would this read without it? And if you can, drop it. It makes your work more readable, clearer.
    Fear stops most potential writers. Most people don’t write (publicly at least) because they’re afraid their writing will ****. Well, it will. Everyone ***** at first. You don’t get better at something by sitting on your hands. **** it up, put yourself out there. You won’t have many readers at first, when you ****, but as your audience grows so will your skills.
    Read regularly for inspiration. I might write more than 1,000 words a day, but I read 10 times that. I read books and (online) magazines and blogs and more. Reading gives me ideas, shows me better ways to write, gives me access to the best teachers in my craft (amazing writers).
    Procrastination is your friend. Every writer lives daily with procrastination. If you allow yourself to feel guilty about that, then you’ll feel bad about yourself as a writer. Instead, embrace your procrastination as a friend, enjoy it … and then ask the friend to leave for awhile so you can get your work done. No friend should monopolize all your time. Get your writing done, then invite the friend back when you have free time.
    Have people expect your writing. This is another reason blogs are fantastic: if you build up an audience, you feel the pressure of their expectations. This pressure is a good thing — it keeps procrastination from taking over your life. You know the audience expects you to write, so you get off your **** and you do it. Before I had a blog, my editors were the people expecting my writing.
    Email is an excuse. We often go to check email because it feels productive (and it can be), but it’s easy to use that as a way to put off the writing. Honestly, if you close your email for a couple hours, nothing bad will happen. Close it, close everything else, and get to writing. Your email will be waiting for you when you’re done.
    Writing tools don’t matter. Most people tinker with their writing tools, trying to find the perfect system. ***** that. You can write with anything, as long as you have a keyboard. Yes, I much prefer typing to writing by hand, because I’m much faster at typing. I can get the words out closer to the speed of my thinking. But what writing program I use is irrelevant: I write in TextEdit, Sublime Text, Ommwriter, Byword, Notational Velocity, in the WordPress or Sett editor in the browser, in Google Docs. Just open up a new document and start writing.
    Jealousy is idiotic. Writers can often be insecure types — perhaps it’s a byproduct of putting your soul out in the world for all to criticize. So they’re often jealous of the success of other writers. That’s a complete waste of time and energy. It does you no good as a writer. Instead, learn from the success of others, see what’s good about you, and merge the two. Be happy for people. It’ll make you happier too.
    Writing can change lives. When I publish a post, I hope it’ll be of use to someone. But the responses I get are often incredible — people tell me how much a post or my blog in general has changed their lives. I’m blown away by this. When you put something with good intention out in the world, you have no idea what kind of impact it might have on others. It might do nothing, but it could have a profound effect on someone’s life. That’s truly powerful. That’s truly a reason to get up and write.

And one thing I’ve learned, above all, is this: the life that my writing has changed more than any other is my own. Writing for you has changed me, in ways I am only beginning to grasp. In wonderful, crazy, lift-you-off-the-ground kind of ways. And that makes me want to do it forever.
pluie d'été Feb 2014
never trust a writer
because their words
flung into the air
in a whisper
a scream
or dropped
in silence
on the emptiness
of a forgotten stillhouette
has the power
to lead you astray

never trust a writer
because they find beauty
in everything
especially sadness
amd the grey
grey sky
that falls at your feet
along the shadow
of your heart
the one you beg
for them to break
to make you

never trust a writer
because they don't always
trust the words
that tumble from their own
perfect lips
they say them for
their beauty
in the sound
in the silence
they say them
for the way they rhyme
with 'forever'

never trust a writer
because he can capture
your soul
with just a look
holding you
the entire universe
and all eternity

never trust a writer
because they may talk
but they dream with their eyes
and closed
and you can never
be sure
which character they have chosen
for you
which character
they have chosen to be
to you

never trust a writer
because their emotions
not always visible
consume them
like a strike of lightening

never trust a writer
because they always
what you want to hear
and what they really
want to say

never trust a writer
because their knowledge of love
is as infinite
as the emptiness
in the black sky
moments of clarity
that create an atlas
of who
they fall for

never trust a writer
because normal in life
is never normal
in their dreams
and they always
last longer

never trust a writer
because 'I'll love you for now'
sounds better
when they say it
as 'I'll love you

never trust a writer
because I swear
they do not believe
in the emptiness
of promises
and they will let you
break their souls
just to see
what happens after
Kurt Philip Behm Jan 2019
Not a professional writer
Not a commercial writer
Not an academic writer
    —of tomes

Not a writer of poetry
Not a writer of prose
Not a writer of colloquy
   —heaven knows

Not a writer of fiction
Not a writer of fact
Not for comic depiction
    —do my words then attack

Not a writer in residence
Not a writer then banned
Not a writer of circumstance
    —just a writer, I am

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)
J Jun 2016
What no one tells you about loving a writer,Is that they're nuts, man.They're slobs, they're hoarders, Have you seen my room? I barely have, to tell the truth.
Crumbled paper lines the floor, Ideas withering from the night before,
What no one tells you about dating a writer, Is that they're so moody.
We’ll try to play it off like some sort of
Artistic facade. Mysterious. Yep, that’s us!
But in reality, we’re probably just ******* wiped. We spent 3 days and 3 nights writing songs and painting pictures that you won’t ever see. And what no one tells you about dating a writer, Is that it is hard.
What no one tells you about loving a writer, is that they’re going to love you back. Hard. They might notice parts of you that you never have, they might focus in on each part and it might make you mad, But I promise they love every scar as much as they love every laugh. They might notice every freckle and how the ones on the small of your back, right there where you start to laugh when you get brushed by another, even lightly, make the little dipper, and how it might be cliche but it’s their favorite constellation. And they will try to connect the dots to make sense of your body, to create a solid thought.
Even if it does not come together like the stars in the sky, they will try and try and what no one tells you about loving a writer
Is that its hard. Remember what I said about us hoarding? We hold on to everything, letting go isn't something we do easily and we'll take in everything you say and do whatever we can to make you want to stay, we're messy, we're clumsy
we're odd but we will give you everything we've got. There’s a reason they have a desk full of half written poems, a reason they might feel so hard, they have a broken heart. Hearts that are whole don’t make art, We hate to admit it but it’s true so what no one tells you about loving a writer, is that you’re loving pieces. You’re loving Monday morning, Chaotic, panicked, angry, hungry. You’re loving Tuesday night, Tired, weary, shaky, sorry. You’re loving a Saturday afternoon when the week catches up and the bags under their eyes become a muse for a new piece they might spend weeks composing only to throw into the trash and what no one tells you about loving someone like that Is that it’s normal to throw away something that took so long to construct. But they won’t tell you that they’re used to that. What did you think made them write in the first place? They are used to that. Their whole lives have been building bridges with flammable wood Over barren lands. What no one tells you about loving a writer, Is that you’re loving two eyes, two hands, Two legs, two ears, and two lips but too many souls to try and control. Don’t try and control them, they’ll turn their back on you, they are conditioned to take their sorrows and turn then into words that can't be taken back, ones that make their spine stop chilling, Perhaps pass it on to another, what no one tells you about dating a writer, is that you will be that “another," you will have to absorb some of the energy, The forces that make these people soak up Every piece of sorrow in the world And make their heads heavy, And make their hearts scary, their hands shaky. What no one tells you about dating a writer, Is to be careful. They are broken and they cannot heal. Because they might stop creating, And their hearts might stop beating, Because their words bleed out of their skin, Their hands shape the world they’ve come to Live in, to love in, And their lungs are filled with every word you’ve ever said, And when you left, They took those words And wrote them down, And what no one tells you about dating a writer, Is that if youre not going to love the writer, At least give them something worth writing about. They will.
Cheryl Mukherji Sep 2014
If you ever fall in love with a writer,
Your days will be musical
The nights will have their own song
Not anymore will you look at things as regular-
The trees will seem to give you more than just shade,
The sunlight will trickle down on your skin
Bouncing off the window pane
The wind will do a waltz through your hair
Your eyes will carry the universe in them
All the things will not be the same again.

If you ever fall in love with a writer
I don’t promise that it will be easy
For, writers can be insane sometimes
What good is love if you don’t jump off sanity?
They are forgettful. Terribly so.
They will not remember anniversaries
Or to buy tickets for your favourite show
But, they will never forget how you smell after a bath,
The colour of your eyes,
Thoughts of you will never escape their mind.

Writers can be clumsy,
They will trip over their own shabby scattered notes,
Spill the ink onto a fresh piece of poem
But, the way their fingers will trace stories on your bare skin,
And how they will carefully settle
The baby hair on your forehead before kissing,
Will seem to you as their finest work.

If you ever fall in love with a writer,
They will never tell you how much
They love you back until,
Your absence makes it hard for them to breathe,
Makes you more of necessity.
They will, then, hold your hand,
Close their eyes
And cry like they have already lost you;
The tears will spread over their face
Like delicate words on paper,
With each one rolling down their cheek
Their clutch of you will grow tighter.
It is when they open their eyes,
Look at you as a miracle in disguise,
That each part of their soul will sing
To you their love
And the million “I love yous” you wrote to them
Will not be enough.

If you ever fall in love with a writer,
Kiss them in the stormy rain,
Drive them to a distant place
They have never been to,
And watch carefully their expressions change,
Build them sand castles
And let the tides wash it away,
Don’t buy them flowers
On Valentine’s day.

For every blown out candle,
every Mazel Tov,
every turn of the tassel,
you gift-wrap what a writer dreads most: blank pages.
It’s never a notebook we need.
If we have a story to tell,
an idea carbonating past the brim of us,
we will write it on our arms, thighs, any bare meadow of skin.
In the absence of pens,
we will repeat our lines deliriously like the telephone number
of a parting stranger
until we become the craziest one on the subway.

If you really love a writer,
find a gravestone of someone who shares their name and take them to it.
When her door is plastered with an eviction notice, do not offer your home.
Say I Love You, then call her the wrong name.
If you really love a writer,
bury them in all your awful and watch as they scrawl their way out.

If you sincerely love a writer,
They will carry you inside them
Till you are all they remain,
Hold you like the glint in their eyes
If a writer falls in love with you,
You can never die.
As a writer,
Pictures inspire the emotion:
The journal acting as the canvas,
And the pen being the brush,

And as a writer to an artist,
Black and white had never shown more beautifully.

Though as a writer dating an artist,
To view meaning within the basic lines of the world
Compares not to the placing of meaning atop the ones given.

For as a writer dating an artist,
A blank page envelopes more than unfinished work,
As any unfinished work soon becomes accepted beauty.

And as a writer dating an artist,
Seeing emotion in color no longer feels foreign,
Evolving old metaphors into nothing shy of the neanderthals.

Thus as a writer dating an artist,
I've begun to learn the way of the trade,
In fear for when my words run dry.

As an artist,
Words inspire the feelings,
The canvas acting as the journal,
And the brush being the pen.

And as an artist to a writer,
Silence had never been etched more enticing.

As the writer dating an artist-
I have become the artist in love with a writer.
March 14th, 2013
preservationman Feb 2016
It was a writer’s line being the flow
Then came the Poet in just letting go
It was words to the finish
The finale in who will be distinguished
A writer’s dialog being about a far off place
I believe it had something to with star wars in a battle in outer space
The Poet wrote about the eyes having words
Imagination of words in a journey being heard
However the Writer and Poet going on their bout in who the Judges and fans will be talking about
Timing being the critical moments
The clock is ticking
Looks like the Writer might have writer’s block
It was some tense moments in being frozen stuck
The Poet is thinking the Writer should be plucked
Finally the Judge’s announced, “Thoughts down”
The Judge’s went though the Writer and Poet works in a hurdle conference among them selves
Only moment will tell
The moments turned into tense seconds
You could see sweat pouring from each of the Writer and Poet
But neither wanted to show it
Suddenly, the announcement of the winner
The Judges stated it was a hard decision
But they knew they had to have precision
The winner is, suddenly a pause
The Poet
But finally everyone knew it
The writer and Poet were excellent competitors
It made no difference in who was the champ
The Writer and Poet were both champions in amp
“If words can be expressed, then it is the sentences that says it best, write like you never have before as it is the journey of words you want the reader to explore”.
Prodigy Oct 2014
Writer's block,
what a horrible thing.
I just want to **** it with a stick.

Writer's block,
is so despicable,
the very thought makes me sick.

Writer’s block,
just go away!
No one wants you - leave us be.

Writer’s block,
is that you again?
I thought I told you to get away from me.

Writer’s block,
UGH, I hate you.
Can’t you see where you’re not wanted?

Writer’s block,
yeah, I see you there.
You know I don’t enjoy being taunted.

Writer’s block,
leave me alone.
You’re getting on my last nerve.

Writer’s block,
I’ll strangle you.
It’s far more than you deserve.

Writer’s block,
what is it now?
No, I do NOT want you to stay.

Writer’s block,
I hate you.
Now won’t you PLEASE go away?
River Jun 2017
The writer's life
Consists of looming strife
For a writer's eyes are keen
To the suffering that usually goes unseen

All writers are bearers of truth
Wielding their pens like a scalpel that cuts through
All the **** we tell ourselves
That keeps us in denial

A writer seeks truth incessantly
And eventually comes upon the somewhat ambiguous answer
That all truth originates from Love
How does the writer's analytical mind
Grapple with such a fluid concept?

The writer sees beauty in the invisible
Writes poetry on bathroom stalls
Lives life solely for stories
The writer feels things deeply but doesn't speak them,
But rather scribbles her thoughts fervently in a notebook
The words dancing on the page
As they are released from the tip of the pen
The writer knows, sadly, that even though she writes stories to make people feel less alone
That these people will never truly ever understand her and neither will
She ever be able to fully embody the experience of another human

The writer has wounds that go deeper than you could fathom
When no one was there to turn to,
She picked up a notebook instead and released the toxic emotional build-up in her head
Made art out of her sadness on the page
Through poetic words,
Elusive and enigmatic,
She could tell her story, indirectly
And still set herself free from the ******* of unspoken miseries

The writer's life is a privileged one indeed
For we see things, but don't speak them
But rather transcribe them forever in our memories
Until we find a clean sheet of paper,
And write
Write everything we've seen, heard, tasted, felt, known and intuited
Every struggle and every victory
Meticulously crafted upon the bare canvas
Like a war zone with an abundance of pent up zest
Finally unleashing itself upon the page
So, write, my fellow Writers
Write fearlessly
And our stories will prevail
They will impact even just one person
Who thought they were all alone,
Perhaps like we once felt.
Maria Etre Dec 2016
Fall in love with a writer
they say and you will never die (quoted)

Fall in love with a writer
they say and you will find yourself
embodied in words

Fall in love with a writer
they say and you will find yourself
stretched over lines and pages


What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their untamed mind
becomes an asylum where
words smash themselves
on the walls of their brains
their hands just
to let them out

What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their addiction
to falling in love is amplified
and when they love
they get a certain high
that numbs their inhibitions to reality
and shuns logic to a very far away land

they  reach a mental state
that lifts you to high enough
just to see a glimpse of their world
just to taste a drop of their
but not all of it

What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their eye *****
birth and harness flames that burn the coldest
of hearts and warm the strongest
of selves

What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their mind soaks up
every bit, every breath
every call, every cell
every touch, every talk
just to embroider it
in the quilt of thought
that's weaving endless stories about you
in their mind

What if a writer falls in love with you?
God have mercy on their soul
for their craving becomes dangerously
intensified, wrapping itself
to their muses,
giving them the sole purpose
of existing

For the more they love
the more stories they write
and more they feel
the longer
Raj Arumugam Oct 2014
How are writers born? What do they suffer? Do writers have to be famous? Are writers so used by readers and the characters and the stories? Does every writer end up all right?

"Sammy baby
You’ve got all these voices
in your head, baby"

"Is that a bad thing, mom?
Is that gonna hurt me, mom?"

"No, Sammy baby, cause
You’re a writer baby
You’ve got all these voices in your head
You’re a star baby
and all these people want your hands
They’re screaming to come out
They’re saying:
'Let us out'
cause you’re a writer baby"

"They talk to me, mom
They say: 'Please, Sammy –
give us a name;
tell our story'"

“Cause you’re a writer, baby Sammy
and  it doesn’t matter
if you live unknown
and be famous after you die
But you’re a writer
and you do what you must do
Give voice to these people
and all their lives
You may become awkward socially
and grow old to be a recluse
but with ‘em people in your head
and as a writer, you’ll be perfect
My Sammy, baby
cause you’re a writer, baby
I carried you to be a writer
You’re born to be a writer
Sammy baby, Sammy baby"

But sometimes it gets so lonely, mom…they only want to talk when they want; then they leave me alone, unwanted…used…and you’ve left me too, mom…you’re nowhere in the rooms or anywhere…
...poem based on the lives of various writers like J.D. Salinger and Kafka, to name just two...
Mitch Nihilist May 2016
If you enjoy having every fibre of your consciousness picked apart by literary ***** at 2 am on a Wednesday,
Fall in love with a writer.

If you enjoy fighting over incorrect grammar usage,
Fall in love with a writer.

If you want to constantly have your eyes rolled at every time you question a metaphor,
Fall in love with a writer.

If you want to be swept off your feet and then promptly put back down in the same piece of writing,
Fall in love with a writer.

If you want to feel worried when the phone isn't answered,
Fall in love with a writer.

Mood swings and sleepless nights?
Fall in love with a writer.

If tangible expression conveys unequivocal compassion,
Most of the time, don't fall in love with a writer.

If you want misinterpret pieces of writing because of the uncertainty of the writers sanity,
Fall in love with one.

If you find that yesterday you were dating a completely different person, if you find that your skin is often referred to as porcelain cigarette ash, if your eyes are viewed like the the first time you saw two flies *******, if the lump in your throat lives on ballpoints, you've fell in love with a writer.

There's no turning
back at this point,
falling out of love
with a writer is like
saying goodbye to a
phone with no dial tone.
Xyns Apr 2014
I'm just a writer
Someone who molds letters
I don't fight in battles
Words are my sword

I'm just a writer
"Not really anything special"
Most ignore the talent
They're too busy with the scoreboard

I'm just a writer
Blending in with the crowd
To try and soak in emotion
Just to scribble it all down

I'm just a writer
I don't lift heavy things
It's not like speaking out for lost hearts
Is considered heavy lifting

I'm just a writer
No one to be noticed easily
Invisible to the naked eye
Because the world has lost appreciation

I'm just a writer
I won't be picked first
I'm not on the winning team
You'll see me on the bench

I'm just a writer
One who knows how to awaken
A deadened sense inside of people
One with the most open mind

I'm just a writer
One who is in the back
Reveling in inner beauty
Though I appear quite dull

But when you read the words
The expressions of heartbreaking and healing things
You'll begin to wonder
What have you been missing

When you look at me
And see a lot of nothing
You'll notice the signs and ask yourself
Am I really just a writer?
Kurt Philip Behm Apr 2017
As a writer,
  I create my own freedom

And as a writer,
  I invent my own friends

As a writer,
  I espouse my own truth

And as a writer,
  my will never bends

As a writer,
  I travel the world

And as a writer,
  that journey’s within

As a writer,
  I dive for more pearls

And as a writer,
  never having to swim

As a writer,
  the moon rises at dawn

And as a writer,
  the sun burns through the night

As a writer,
  my words play immortal

And as a writer,
—all heaven in sight

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)
I am a blankhead writer. I wrote a nonsense poem. I write a pointless prose. I used to sell my 1000 words of claptrap for a one dollar bill to the low market publishers in town for a hopeless living. I used to walk on the busy street of Metropolis looking for job-flyers. I was scammed, robbed, snatched and been kidnapped. I even been tortured to death but managed to survive. I am a blankhead writer.

I am a blankhead writer. I dreamt to be a famous author in town. I imagined my scap works on the best seller bookstands in the corner of the bookstores. I tried to call myself  brilliant despite of my incapabilities---mind incapabilities to be exact.  I am a blankhead writer.

I am a blankhead writer. Like how I used to be. I wrote a nonsense poem. I write a pointless prose. I usually forget the goals along the way. I always choose raw  emotions over witty decisions. I always make a plan for everything and give up. I let every little opportunity slides on my hand. I wonder how I called myself a writer. Maybe because, I am a blankhead writer.

I am a blankhead writer. Alive but barely living. Trying to keep up on everything that was left behind. Dreaming but can’t find the urge catching up. Losing tracks continually. Lost determination, inspiration, everything to keep myself moving. Yes, I was indeed a blankhead writer.

I am a blankhead writter. I loved and been loved. I leave and was left behind.  Was hurt just how every human named it. I cried, so hard that I even want to **** my eyes out from it’s socket. I starved just how the poor lost child felt   along the busy street. I fought and I lose. I have been bewitched and have never been reclaimed. I am a blankhead writer.

I am the blankhead writer. Yes, its me. . I wrote this nonsense poem. I wrote the pointless prose. I know nothing but breathing. I never fought for the right nor speak for the good. I never look in the eyes of those old weak men I met in the road. I am afraid and scared. I am heartless and brainless. I have nothing but dead conscience. I have ... I have nothing because – I am the blankhead writer.
preservationman Nov 2015
It’s the addiction to words
The offspring of story ideas
Feeling discouraged with being disillusioned
The garbage can being a writer’s friend
The pen that actually says writing on when
The computer telling the writer you can
A writer being absorbed in his or her own emotion
An idea being a sunrise including an ocean
Waves performing on the writer’s calm seas
Hair blowing in the breeze
A touch of calmness with the feeling of being at ease
The writer reflecting on their own time piece
It was time well kept as you slept
Writing appreciation in what the writer felt
Yet it was a situation in what the writer dealt
It was that writing day and night
The lamp became my guiding light
It was writing being a marathon
In between I had to yond
When it came to writing I had to respond
Writing desire with outer emotion
A concept with an angle to explore
It was that confidence and I had a definite sure
Writing anonymous but the writer being known
As a writer one must always remember they are never alone.
Kurt Philip Behm Sep 2019
As a writer,
I create my own freedom

And as a writer,
I invent my own friends

As a writer,
I espouse my own truth

And as a writer,
my will never bends

As a writer,
I travel the world

And as a writer,
that journey’s within

As a writer,
I dive for more pearls

And as a writer,
each moment begins

As a writer,
the moon rises at dawn

And as a writer,
the sun burns through the night

As a writer,
my words play immortal

And as a writer
—all heaven in sight

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)
george Feb 2018
I get to see the world in unbounded manners and patterns of oceans crashing down on the pages and endless endless beam of lines strolling towards nowhere leading to the path of horror and agony creating a void of dreams and memories columned against the walls of our ideas, I have achieved total enlightenment through the craft of my words, and the bending of my mind:

i am a writer of no demands.
a writer of no in betweens.
a writer of pure passion.
a writer of reckless consumption.
a writer with no roof but the trees towering on the hills beside the mountains endlessly inspiring ideas and visions of no pragmatic truth.
a writer with anything but a candle for his hope and a box for his cigarettes.
a writer with no pen but his mind and his tortured soul.
a writer who believes that religion is immoral.

I am the starving writer and I'm full of cliche.
just a stream of consciousness
Cameron Godfrey Apr 2013
I write about love and I write about hate
I am a writer who was born to create

I am a writer
I write with a pen and I type with a whirl
I'm a writer, a poet, a creative girl.

I am a writer
Hear the whoosh of my pen
I am a writer and I'll say it again

Because I am a writer
I want to be heard
So I'll write every sentence with thought in each word

I write about love and all that is great
I am a writer who was born to create
Big Virge Dec 2020
... " The Writer In Me "...
Who Writes Poetry …….

Through Usage of Text....

It's The ONE Part of Me...
That TRULY Is.... FREE...............................  

NO Constraints........................ ..
Or Words That TAINT...  !!!
The Vivid Pictures That I Paint...

It's... The Writer In Me...

Who Wants To BELIEVE...

A Key To Achieve...
A Sense of Peace...
IN... Who I Be... !!!!

And A Sense of LOVE...
In..... HUMANITY.... !!!!!!!!!!!!

Because The Writer In Me...
Chooses... To SEE...
And YES CORRECT... !!!!!

The EVIL That Resides IN People.....

UNABLE To Release...
Their...  INNER Beast... !!!

The Demons That...
... "Restrict and Trap"...

The... HUMAN Part...
That Pumps Their Heart...

Instead of The Path...

And Makes Them Move...
Like... Human Sharks... !!!

... The Writer In Me...
Does NOT Infuse...
Like Those From Schools...
Where IGNORANCE Rules...

It... CHOOSES To Pool...
... RESOURCEFUL Moods...
Where CREATION IS The ONLY Tool...

I Need To Make...
My Dark Moods Cool...

And Then Relate CREATIVE Views...
That Reflect On.................
.... Our Life's Function....

It's... " The Writer In Me "...

Who Wants To See...
Humanity REACH...
For Beliefs That FEED...
Our Youngsters Themes...
That DO NOT Teach...
Them... How To Be...


But... DEEPER Things...
That Help Us Live...

Like LOVE and PEACE...
And... UNITY... !!!!!!!!

of Their Minds Their Souls...
and Their Bodies... !!!

So That LESS Holes....
Become... EXPOSED... !!!

In... How It Is...
We Choose To Roll...

From Being At Home...
To How We Control...

Our... " Spiritual Being "...
And Find DEEPER Meaning... !!!

Than Acting Like... “cowards”...
Who Live To Gain POWER...
And Using THOSE Powders...

That Leave BULLETHoles In Clothes.....
And IMPLODE Up Some Peoples Nose... !!!!!

... The Writer In Me...
REFUSES To Go... !!!!

To Places... " so low "...

That They're Beneath My Toes...
cos' I'm A... TALL Bloke... !!!!

YES... That Was A Joke !!!

See The Writer In Me...
Just Wants To Be HAPPY... !!!

In This World That's CLEARLY...
LOST With... NO SEA... ?!!!?

LOSING It's Trees...
To Build Properties... ?!?

... LOSING Families...
Due To ANGER That Seeps..............

Into Mums And Daddies'...
That Sadly Now FEEDS...
The Offspring They Breed....

But... That's NOT The Way...
That I Will End This Piece... !!!

... The Writer In Me...

Dreams NOT Deluded...

Those...  LESS DIVISIVE...
And MUCH MORE Inviting... !!!

of Human Progression... !!!
MORE Uplifting lessons...

More TRUTH And LESS Moods...
That... DO NOT Include.... !!!

And YES Of Course WRITERS... !!
Who Choose To Be FIGHTERS... !!!

For... LESS BLOOD To Pour...

More Wordplay To ROAR...
And... Lyrically SOAR... !!!

CRUISING In The Skies... !!!

With NATURE You See... !!!

A Place That... BELIEVE...

THESE Words That I BLEED... !!!


... " The Writer In Me "...
I never dreamed that I would be one, however, it seems that I now am a writer !
Jean Sullivan May 2015
The difference between a writer and everyone else,
A writer needs no recognition for their work,
They do not lust for what wealth they might gain,
A good writer does not need applause,
Does not need praise,
Does not need rewards,
Does not even need to be published.
A good writer is partial talent,
A good writer writes often.
A good writer see's the world,
      and its finest details.
They stay behind for the ending,
         the rolling credits.
They make tea and drink coffee.
They fall in love too quickly,
and fall out of love just as fast.
A good writer translates feelings into words,
they form it to flow like a soft stream.
A good writer is quiet.
A good writer is loud.
They carry their tools everywhere they go.
They enjoy the tangible.
The soft paper on their hands,
the way the ink bleed from the pen.
A good writer writes in all ways,
about all things,
and all emotions.
A good writer is a historian,
an endless burning torch,
their words will forever inspire the world,
As a single soul.
I am a writer. A writer that cannot find the words to write down this emotion. A writer out of many. I am not unique or special. I don't stand out. I'm just a writer with a head full of words and a soul full of feeling. I'm your everyday human.

Medically, i'm boring.
Socially, I'm entertaining.

I write while others sleep or fill their lungs with love.
I think while others talk.
I laugh while others cry.
I breathe while most stop.
I'm alive, weather it feels like it or not.

But, least importantly, i'm just a writer.
A writer with a head full of jumbled words and a soul filled with both love and hate. A body that feels numb and a heart for a home with a draft coming in due to little insulation. I'm a tad bit bitter, but aren't we all? I'm far from joyful, but most are now a days.

People change and so does this world.
People are at war with themselves.
People are disgusting.
But i'm a writer, not a person.
I'm a human, not a number.
But to most, i'm just there. Nearly the background music to their lives.

To me, I am a wall. No one gets in and no one can break it down. People have tried, but never succeeded.
I am damaged.
I am a writer.

To some, I am a friend.
To others, a stranger.
To very little, a lover.
To one, a hate.

But I am not any of those things.

I am flesh. Bare to the whole world.
Bare *****.
Take a peek inside, you'll see.

People say they're a lot of things. But realistically, in the end of it all, we're all dust intertwining in eachothers specks.
Holding hands as the ship goes under.
All claiming we're the captain.
Where'd the individuals go?

Well, i'm right here. Standing alone. Waiting for something that is actually nothing.
To me, I am an individual.
To others, I am everything else.
To the world, i'm almost non-existant.

I don't search for anything.

But for now, I walk this Earth like many others.
I am just your average person.
Just another writer.
I am just bones and flesh, covered by a sickening disguise.

People say beauty is everywhere, but that's only to the naked eye. Take a look around, you'll see.
Take a look around in me.
Beauty can't be seen by anything.
It's hidden beneathe the depths of the oceans and the heart of the world.
It's hidden within everything.
Beauty is out of reach.
The world is too covered to see it.
We made it this way.
We made this world ugly.

But what do I know?

I am just a writer.
Your average joe stranger.
I am your sleepless dream.
I am your weakness.
Your strength.
Your hate.
Your love.
Your entertainment.
But I am not yours.
I am not anybody.
I am me.

I am an individual and this is why I stand alone.
I am content.
I will manage.
The world will still spin round, once i'm gone.
Aswell as once we're all gone, because the world waits for no one.
©SeanaseaWallen 2010
Manunula T Jul 2018
When a writer wants to write;
He will let his pen cry out its ink and he will wait until the idea comes out from his thoughts—he will let the blank sheet of paper to be filled by those flowery words with an emotion of it; euphoria, melancholy even the pain from anxiety.
When a writer wants to cry;
He will let his eyes cry out its clear fluid saline and he will wait until he haunt by his dark pasts—he will let his war room to be filled by darkness; loneliness, sadness until he meet the depression.
When a writer wants to smile;
He will let his mouth to make its own curve and greet the other people in the street—he won't let the bliss disappear from his heart so he want to share it to other people.
When a writer wants to love;
He will let his heart follow its own heart beat. The missing pieces from it will be found by its own heart string—those beats from his heart make him alive again, then when he found his love—he won't stop from loving her until the last beat of his heart.
All these things are part of being a good writer but not just that, being a writer is not just about writing his piece though his pieces—but doing this just to be fixed again.
A writer's heart is loyal on his pen; words, rhymes even the beat of its own pulse.
A writer will write using his one and only pen—the pen or the reason why he write.
—Mark Magcamit
Ally Ann Jun 2018
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
Bianca Custodio Apr 2015
I was never much of a writer
I never knew how it was to
Rearrange letters in the alphabet
To form various splashes of color
That create one big masterpiece
I was never much of a writer
I never knew how it was to
Stretch my hands out
And be able to reach for words and phrases
I can use to build and create and make
Into a story I can call my own.
Instead the words and the letters
Looked like jumbled puzzle pieces that didn't quite work together,
They looked like stars
In the form of failed constellations
Mismatched brightness and color
I didn't get any of it
Sometimes I think I was too dizzy
From this 360° spin that we call life
See, I was never much of a writer
But I tried
I tried mix and matching words that I thought would make sense
But they never did
I tried picking the best flowers
For this bouquet of letters and symbols I tried making
But all I ended up with was
Withering words and
Misspelled petals
I tried building
Lego after lego after lego
But the pieces still refused to fit
So the towers fell; crumbled
Again and again and again
Reminding me of a mistake I made years ago
Again and again and again
Like a song on repeat
And it's times like these when I wish life was pencil on paper
So that I can erase, erase, erase
All the parts of me I didn't like
But I never had enough strength
To pick up a pen and create.
I couldn't.
I tried lighting candle upon candle
Of fragments of stories I thought I understood
So that I could see what the darkness up ahead contained
But all I ended up with
Was a forest fire
And the next thing I knew,
Everything was burning
My home
My papers
My dreams
My desires
My pride
My stubborn head
My rebel heart
And this flimsy, failed wrist of a writer of mine
Everything was burning
And everything that burned turned into ash
Disappeared into smoke somewhere above our heads
So that we can no longer see them
And I finally understood
I was never a writer
I was never the writer
I was never the author
Or the editor
Or the storyteller
Or the poet
I was never supposed to write in the first place
So I stopped writing.
And I let The Writer write
This huge masterpiece of a story
That we all call life
And ever since then,
The words made sense
The flowers never withered
The Legos all fit
The candles stayed lit
And life
Has never been more awesome
A bit of my testimony in a poem. Jeremiah 29:11. Made on March 6, 2015.
JR Potts Apr 2016
The coffee had settled to a temperature few could drink with any pleasure. The cursor impatiently blinked against the empty word document as he sat defeated by the previous one hundred attempts to write a single sentence.  He could not be a writer, he thought, writers do not spend hours in front of blank screens, staring blankly and drawing blanks. They are full of original stories which overflow from the gray matter of their brains, spilling out from the tips of their fingers as they beat atop plastic keys like Mozart realizing symphonies as he glide across the ivory teeth of a fortepiano. He was right; he was no writer, not yet. In this instance of doubt like Schrödinger’s cat, both men, the writer and the not-writer inhabited the same chair, the same space in time waiting to be woke by a single decision. If he decided he was not a writer than all potential realities collapse into one and the writer dies in that chair. I'm no Edward Lorenz and I don't know much about butterfly effects but what if this is one of those microscopic events that changes the initial conditions and forever alters the data set? What if a masterpiece is lost on a whim? I so badly want to communicate all of this to him but I can't, because I am remembering a distant memory of the moment I lost the man I was suppose to be.
Josh Koepp Oct 2012
a writer writes his writ upon his therapist
becomes a terrorist upon an innocent blank canvas
and breathes deep of deep water
searching aimlessly through the murky abyss
for word choice or some voice that sank it's teeth
into calm waters, sinking calm into the universe
beneath stormy oceans, and coral reefs
and then it is lost forever
or at least
for the quotient of our time strung together
so the writer has to make the world smaller
less corners to hide behind on an island
without defiling a perfect balance between dreams
and silence
the writer risks every random revelry being revealed
inside of a blank pages first time
to quiet the world in their minds
and find calm sealed away in a place you'd rather be
but the longer you stay reality fades to grey
and you only see what could be satisfactory
some day
a writer experiences love like a story, but euphoric in ways
unexplained except by a blank white page.
which becomes a mistrustful mistress
and you begin to miss your healthy distrust
instead of a co-trust between love and the pen and the paper
a writer can feel only through the pen
so if a writer writes on your skin
you'll know they want to see you again
and you to see them
Joseph S C Pope Mar 2013
The writer is

                                                             ­ bound by the Oedipus
                                          cauldron stewing          can't relax

                          --all women are mine--
                                                          ­       but this doesn't stop the bloating bubbles.

                     But the writer did not invent Wonderlandia
               --no double-sided tape or wrong number or sloppy poetics.

                              Wonderlandia was born from the ***** of the stars
                                                         --our fathers,
                              and the void of space,
                                                     --our mother's womb.
the writer

                                             was busy staring at the girls that walked by
                                        ditch diggers for renovations on Euphoria.
                The hippies are disappointed in this current Wonderlandia,
   or they would be.

                               Their dreams had dirt in the mud,
                they walked upon.                Our Woodstock
                                                       ­         is celebrity interviews,
                                                     ­           reservations failing,
                                                        ­        political satires--the last ring of change
             sold at five cents a word. Period.

the writer
                                        says it understands and writes:
                      "Sticks shaped from elitism
                        Usually a vibe too brittle,
                        breaking in battle.
                        The bass thundered robins.
                        The snare's firearm stabled the swift,
                        electrifying beat.
                        The brass was addiction
                        to the crowd's ears.
                        All before the elitism was born,
                        a symphony was constructed in the drug's head."

the writer
                                knows about D. A. Levy and his revolution,
                  we all felt that voice, so the writer replies:
                               "Did you hear about the John Lennon poser
                                 waving his gun on TV?
                                 While listening to the Beatles, you
                                 sit and watch the vagabond cry.
                                 He says, "Counter-culture is dead, entombed
                                 in a metal casket.
                                 We need a new flame. Those watching TV
                                 get your hands out of the basket."

the writer
                                        walks with grandma Alice
                                       by lakes,
                                                       thrilling dementia
                                    "Don't tell me what taurine
                                      and caffeine can do to my heart.
                                      I can have alligators in my rib meat
                                      eating away at bone marrow.

                                      High? That's your question?
                                      Hi...I am a float
                                      in a useless pond
                                      bordered by malnourished trees.

                                      By the love of hell you better not
                                      fertilize those ****** trees
                                      because if I die
                                      the alligator of my ribs
                                      will dine and take your ****
                                      girlfriend straight to the vet.
                                      I thank you for asking though."

    the writer misses
                                 the syrup in the tree completely
                     I am not your beatnik
                                or future idol--burn your 1970's classrooms away.

— The End —