Writer’s Lament

Crank the tunes, two in the morning, headphones leaving that familiar burning about the ears. Fingers busted wide across the keyboard stinging from pencils furious repetitions across blackened pages. WRITE! Just write anything that comes flowing into the unconscious consciousness that comes. Delirious sleeping of letters flying around. Pictures from within, worlds emerge, stories write themselves. Beats. Scribbles. Blood. Technicolor lines. Write to the heartbeat, the drumbeat, the guitar strum, every third word heard or object noticed. Play the story. Be the story. Let it sink into that bottomless pit hidden deep within the soulless hells that get tucked away from the light of day. Go fishing for it and yank its sorry ass back to the surface, squeezing it for every last drop the pencil can muster up. Worry not about repercussions. Don’t read it back. Just write. The butcher can make it the beautiful steak once all the blood is drained later. Don’t hold back!