Subjective Dizziness: Bad Writing

Subjective Dizziness

Bad Writing

Lines are made linear and I human. I need the beat, I sing the bite and breathe the shut doors of your maroon soul. I can’t skip the I, oh what shall I do? She never hugged me; she embraced me like a Jazz god heaving his thorny tunes. Oh she loved me, but no more, no more.

She is not my dream. She is my pocket money savior. I am too many adjectives. She is The Verb. No doubt she will be better off without me, no doubt.

Writing is never therapy; it is a deed just like any other. My short sentences are evidence of a long ongoing life full of “one damn thing after the other.” Do you wish to know me? What for? Why so? You really don’t. Writing is just an act of moving fingers, lips-biting and stained sheets. Just don’t, for I have nothing to show you.

She was a white smooth pillar burning the sun and darkening the moon. She brought the ends and cut the years. She discovered the here and consumed the now to the limit of mad sanity. She gave the yeses and fired the nos. She believed and believed and believed but never had faith. She smiled out of tears and wept within the silent laughter. She loves.

And loneliness prevails. Amongst the shouting tunes and crying solos you have got no place to mend your wings. Those raving promises you speak utter you. Climb the surface of your shell and throw me a nod my spoiled angel. Mention me in your iron prayers; in exchange, I will watch over you. You weave the truths, you play lead guitar, you free the land, you capture time and you shed me out of your blood.

She fought the wind and stole the frost. She flew over reality’s head and dived into the heart of wait. She sang the impossible and fled the possible. She needs no metaphors.

Bread is made of sweat and I of letters.