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#1 Edited by regularassmilk (1385 posts) -

I, Me, My

I'm an aspiring writer/musician/filmmaker but I spent a sizable chunk of time writing little short-form poetry for my blog, Soapbox/Shitbox. Some of its humorous, some serious, but it's what I do, and I want to see if the GB community is holding any other aspiring writers, or artists in any sense. Post your stuff, post links, post pictures of your third cousin! I'll post three of my poems below. Comments appreciated.

What I Could Have Said

I was walking through target

and me and my lady saw this lunchbox.

And I said

Your face is a lunchbox.

But What I Could Have Said, was

Your face is a lunchbox, because I put all my bologna in there.

Island.

I remember one time I was cleaning the house

it was an early winter evening,

where the sun gets mad at you and slams the door and drives to another mans house

for the day.

My father was lounging around in his underwear after work on the couch

watching tv.

He frustratedly points the remote like a broken wand and says

“I don’t have any batteries. I mine as well be on a fucking island.”

Stuck to the Floor

So there we stood, on different squares of the Earth.

One pregnant, crying in the middle of Best Buy

outside sit the tear-streaked dirt-ridden hood of the desert fox.

One unconscious, and occasionally drunkenly making phone calls to people.

Thick tears mix with spilled booze in dirty clothes

slept in for days.

The third standing not understanding, feeling responsible, violent,

with the sudden urge to start getting away,

with the pedal fighting for oxygen because it’s stuck to the floor.

Edit: Left this in the general discussion, shit. Sorry Mods.

#2 Edited by TentPole (1858 posts) -

I am a writer, but I am also someone who blocked off-topic posts so I would not have to sift through bad poetry about a stranger shoving his dick into his girlfriend's mouth.

Yet here I am.

#3 Posted by Kevin_Cogneto (1027 posts) -

@TentPole said:

I am a writer, but I also am someone who blocked off-topic so I would not have to sift through bad poetry about people shoving their dick into their girlfriend's mouth.

Yet here I am.

Best poem in the thread.

Online
#4 Posted by regularassmilk (1385 posts) -

@Kevin_Cogneto said:

@TentPole said:

I am a writer, but I also am someone who blocked off-topic so I would not have to sift through bad poetry about people shoving their dick into their girlfriend's mouth.

Yet here I am.

Best poem in the thread.

Sorry about the fuck up, I wasn't thinking about the thread until after I posted it.

#5 Posted by Funkydupe (3311 posts) -

Man.

Woman.

Machine.

What does it all mean to a freshly picked flower fading in a bed full of crack cocaine.

Aliens.

Super Mario Party 10.

/bow

#6 Posted by believer258 (11775 posts) -

I like to write prose here and there. I keep getting these grand ideas for full-length novels, putting a handful of pages down, and then never getting back around to them. Maybe I should stick to short stories instead?

Poetry, however, I do not enjoy. I do not enjoy reading it. I do not enjoy writing it. I do not enjoy it at all, hence the apprehension for an English degree. Which I have, ultimately, decided not to do.

#7 Posted by Video_Game_King (36272 posts) -

Do I count?

#8 Posted by regularassmilk (1385 posts) -

@believer258 said:

I like to write prose here and there. I keep getting these grand ideas for full-length novels, putting a handful of pages down, and then never getting back around to them. Maybe I should stick to short stories instead?

Poetry, however, I do not enjoy. I do not enjoy reading it. I do not enjoy writing it. I do not enjoy it at all, hence the apprehension for an English degree. Which I have, ultimately, decided not to do.

I can't tell you the number of things I've had ideas for and gotten 10 pages into and said "Ah, this is fucking stupid!"

#9 Posted by rawrsair (821 posts) -

I write on my blog on Tumblr, mainly prose and the occasional poem. I sketch on there too. If any of you GB people are on there, give me a shout.

#10 Posted by JacDG (2118 posts) -

I write reviews for a gaming website, I guess that counts somehow.

#11 Posted by Funkydupe (3311 posts) -

@JacDG: Which site? What pants are you wearing?

#12 Posted by Kevin_Cogneto (1027 posts) -

@believer258 said:

Poetry, however, I do not enjoy. I do not enjoy reading it. I do not enjoy writing it. I do not enjoy it at all, hence the apprehension for an English degree. Which I have, ultimately, decided not to do.

Couldn't agree more.

Free verse is so much nonsense.

Haiku is better.

Online
#13 Posted by Tamaster92 (271 posts) -

I am a 'creative type' my blog is under michaelohareblog.blogspot.com. I write mostly videogame reviews at the moment as well as make music and games, any comments etc are greatly appreciated!

#14 Posted by InfinityBit (26 posts) -

I have various levels of writing - daily journal that gets filtered to a scriptogr.am blog that's supplemented with opinionated nonsense, plus some creative prose pieces that pass the time until school lets out.

#15 Posted by Jeust (10537 posts) -

I write prose and verse. My blog here has some of my poems.

I'm also writing a novel, and I'm currently in the sixteenth chapter. The story is about the search for a familiar yet unknown happiness that we look everywhere for. We look for it in the bottom of a glass, in the arms of a woman, in all places, but, as we don't really know what we are looking for, we stumble time and again in our search. The title for the work is Searching For You.

#16 Posted by MooseyMcMan (10827 posts) -

I wrote a book. Still editing it though.

Moderator Online
#17 Edited by falling_fast (2207 posts) -

I'm um, writing a text rpg in c++, does that count?

also I'm learning to make noise/drone music, but I have nothing to show for it yet really.

#18 Posted by xMP44x (2193 posts) -

I do quite a lot of writing around different websites. I scribbled some stuff for Digital Warfare 24/7, and its sister site, Modern Warfare 24/7, in the past. I still do the occasional bit of writing for it and the other sites tied to it. I write some guff on the Giant Bomb wiki from time to time, but nowhere near as frequently as I previously did. There's also another site I do some writing for at times, called Neowin. Pretty good times since I enjoy writing and I'd love to improve and refine my abilities at it.

#19 Posted by liquidmatt (230 posts) -

I write poetry because I like the details of language, but I've written TV pilots, short stories and a script for a graphic novel. I do English Lit and Creative Writing at uni which helps.

If anyone starts up a review site for anything and would like any contribution I would really love to help out in any way, I'd love the opportunity to be part of something rather than just writing in the vain hope someone will read it.

Blog is at http://liquidmatt.tumblr.com if anybody wants a gander.

#20 Posted by dabe (299 posts) -

Used to do paid freelance writing for various kinds of shitty websites for dirt cheap.

Now working on novel while getting paid in a great job.

Have a dream journal that is constantly written in (I am a vivid dreaming mess).

Seems a lot of people like to blog/write and also sign up to GB :D

#21 Posted by efman (208 posts) -

Recent unemployed Journalism graduate here, so yes, a writer of sorts? It's really tough out there.

#22 Posted by Nux (2323 posts) -

I hope to be some kind of writer some day.

#23 Edited by xMP44x (2193 posts) -
@efman said:

Recent unemployed Journalism graduate here, so yes, a writer of sorts? It's really tough out there.

It is? I was considering going for journalism at university in a few years' time if I make it that far, but that's not the most encouraging thing to hear. :(
#24 Posted by CornBREDX (5046 posts) -

I aspire to be a writer. Been an amateur writer since I was 6.

I still aspire to be a writer, i'm now 30. I do not get paid to write. Someday...

#25 Posted by ragnarok7038 (50 posts) -

I've fucked around with short fiction. An excerpt:

I remember looking in the chromium walls of the theater’s exterior and trying to decide which side of dapper I was falling on. After some consideration, I took the chartreuse handkerchief from my jacket pocket and tucked it away against my chest, hoping I was now tilting away from the foppish side of the fence. My recently discovered mustache was accent enough; it had been discovered in the bathroom mirror three weeks into my breakup-imposed quarantine, and it now perched atop my lip like a flaxen falcon, watching every single woman with a predatory eye, inviting them closer to inspect its bristly perfection. I watched it jostle about its perch as I mouthed the words in the mirror; testing them out. “Lady killer.” Oh yeah, I was slick.

#26 Edited by efman (208 posts) -

@xMP44x I never regret fulfilling a passion I've long held. Sorry, was not meaning to discourage your ambitions you so clearly seem to have. It's not a stretch to say that the job market is in a great state of flux right now, regardless of trade. If you want to pursue a degree in journalism, I'd encourage you to do so. I just happen to be getting bad luck right now.

#27 Edited by Fajita_Jim (1463 posts) -

I've done a bit of writing in my time; poetry and A LOT of short stories. My poems are unusual in that I care little for rhymes and like to play more with cadence and rhythm, thus some of the odd breaks and formatting.
 
Then you get something like A Letter From Before where I just completely fuck with the line breaks to purposely cause the reader to halt and stutter through the piece.
 
12:00 AM EST seems like a good place to start since it has a nice rolling cadence that I really like. Reason is a short work because I was trying to be as succinct as possible and still get a point across. 
 
Foglife is just a mind-to-paper MINDFUCK. I was really depressed when I wrote it. On a Sidewalk is another short piece, I was just trying to convey as much emotion in as little space as possible.
 
Citadel Tree Village is simply reflecting on an LSD-filled summer, half blaming myself and half congratulating myself for having that experience. The breaks are hard and odd because that was my mental state at the time: start and stop. Seriously, I did a LOT of LSD in the summer of 1995. It took a while to recover mentally.
 
Opossum Nation was a letter to a friend on a napkin when she was going through some difficult life issues and we were having issues between the two of us.

These Words was the closing page in my notebook that contains all these (and others).
 
These were written during the same period in the mid-90's. I've been doing mostly short stories since then but I'd really like to get back into poetry at some point, I really enjoyed it. I've got a lot more, but the below are my personal favorites (that I care to share, anyway).
 

12:00 AM EST

Despite the rambling of the former (day)
and the dead-white star in the night sky
the mind trolls are digging their capybara tunnels
and the meadows ARE touched by spider-web dew
the last vigilant diurnal beast falls under the night
the trees melt into dark-mass form
and dreams roam freely in the false-light streets
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

A Letter From Before

Do I appear closer
now? These words
were once visited
by my consciousness,
but now they stand
empty, until you
momentarily fill
their shell with
your presence.
Believe in me.
     Trust me.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Reason

The sorcerers in my head are restless
the imagery they conjure is virgin
and I must give marriage with my pen
 
 
 
 
 

Foglife

Look
The differences are minimal
I don't anger like you
I had my time in the shade
Let me out for a little while


Most times I'm just pleased to stare
Not that often the chance arises
Forget what I said before
I can't remember it anyway


I guess the thing that keeps me going is curiosity
What can I make or this or that?
Some say tomorrow never comes
I think it's just today only a little later


The hope people express is sickening
That conceded notion that life will become worthy of our attention
Has it ever?
Where am I in all this?


We all lay beneath heathen layers of filth
Hidden by our vile notions of sex and bleeding thoughts like words
Not even the remembrances of which we were disturb us now
We must be poor examples unto ourselves
 

 
 

On a sidewalk at 3:39am

(So cold, so dark, so alone, so afraid) *EXPIRES*
 
 
 
 
 

Citadel Tree Village


I perceived something
Other than what
was presented.
Was I wrong to
believe that what
I experienced was
real? Those were
the days of melting
time and cloud covered
mental images. Those
were the days when
I'd follow you if
you showed me
the way to
your place of
origin.
 
 
   


Opossum Nation

I think I missed the point
Yeah
I'm pretty sure I did
Gotta get past this static
That's receiving in my head
Said something's wrong with ya?
They told you too?
Come and sit beside me
And I'll decay with you

Buzz your frequency over to me, baby.
 
 
 
 

These Words

Words are beautiful clutter written on dead trees
all over the world
#28 Posted by TaliciaDragonsong (8698 posts) -

Yep.
 
Working on several stories right now.

#29 Posted by fox01313 (5069 posts) -

Written a few unpublished short stories & poems, was really wanting to do more with writing mysteries & horror stories but really needed a steady job first to pay the bills (still looking btw :( ).

#30 Posted by Doctorchimp (4073 posts) -

Good Topic

Bad Topic

They all defy logic

Who would have known that click would have brought me here?

Who would have known that dick would be waiting there?

Either way here I am

Reading this man's perjury

#31 Posted by Inkerman (1451 posts) -

I write quite a bit, both prose and actual stories, usually in the vein of sci-fi

#32 Posted by TheHumanDove (2523 posts) -

I'm a typer, personally.

#33 Posted by Ace829 (2083 posts) -

@Kevin_Cogneto said:

@believer258 said:

Poetry, however, I do not enjoy. I do not enjoy reading it. I do not enjoy writing it. I do not enjoy it at all, hence the apprehension for an English degree. Which I have, ultimately, decided not to do.

Couldn't agree more.

Free verse is so much nonsense.

Haiku is better.

I'm the same way. Poetry makes my head hurt. Maybe I "don't get it", but I am kinda glad that I'm not alone.

#34 Posted by Mustachio (242 posts) -

I like writing stuff, but I've never done it professionally. Lately I think I've ended up feeding my need to write by having some of the oddest and generally silliest Steam conversations I've ever had. For instance:

Viper: Kid don't know why he looks like a peanut. Don't really care much, neither.
Nuttz: Kid don't take too kindly to fellers interuptin' his gamin' time. Least not before the Calamity hit...
Viper: Kid's a been a bit of a dick, maybe because he's a peanut.
Nuttz: Kid feels sad. Maybe it's that insult that just got thrown at him. Maybe it's missin' all of his friends. Or maybe, just maybe, the Calamity is finally takin' its toll.
Viper: Kid takes a poop. Time was the poop would heed gravity and go down, not up. But that was before the Calamity ...
Nuttz: Truth is, kid never really pooped before the Calamity. Seems it effected him more than he thought.
Viper: But now there was no time to poop, no place to poop. The Calamity had taken everythin' from the Kid, but even this took him by surprise.
Nuttz: He gets up, finds his old friend the laxative, sittin' there all alone, surrounded by the sheer drops the Calamity brought us. No more sittin' around, time to poop.
Viper: Kid just poops for a while.
Nuttz: Little does he know, somethin' approaches from the south. Windbags.
Viper: Kid gives the Windbags a taste of his own medicine, and some poop.
Nuttz: Finds Something Stinky in the smashed up remains of his old home. Now he just needs to find Forge.
Viper: Kid maybe shouldn't have done what he just did.
Nuttz: Now the whole place is comin' down, and there's only one way out. Kid's gonna need alotta poop.
Viper: Kid finds the Poopway. Takes him where he needs to go ...
Nuttz: Poop doer's ridge. Used to be the most beautiful waterin' hole in all of Caelondia. Used to be...
Viper: Kid starts to wonder if anyone else survived the Calamity. He finds one. He finds ... Poop.
Nuttz: I couldn't be more happy when The Kid brings poop back to the Bastion. They hit it off, seems Kid took a liking to Poop...
Viper: Bastion starts to grow. Repair. It has enough power to make one building from before the Calamity. Only seems right the Kid gets to choose.
Viper: He makes a Toilet.
Nuttz: I tried explainin' to the kid that a toilet ain't a buildin'. He didin't listen, needed to poop real bad.

I mean, you know, I technically wrote that. If books of Steam conversations become popular one day I'm gonna be fucking richer than Gaben. Hopefully it'll be worth the weight.

#35 Posted by JacDG (2118 posts) -

@Funkydupe said:

@JacDG: Which site? What pants are you wearing?

not an american or English speaking site, but it's one of the larger gaming sites in my country I believe, also, I'm wearing jeans but I'm about to change into sweatpants because it's time to sleep..

#36 Posted by liquidmatt (230 posts) -

@Kevin_Cogneto said:

@believer258 said:

Poetry, however, I do not enjoy. I do not enjoy reading it. I do not enjoy writing it. I do not enjoy it at all, hence the apprehension for an English degree. Which I have, ultimately, decided not to do.

Couldn't agree more.

Free verse is so much nonsense.

Haiku is better.

Not sure if people get this (5/7/5). Just thought I'd show appreciation for your quick thinking!

--

But then surely is blank verse not the best,

for communicating all your feelings?

Perhaps I shall stick to iambic pent.

So people will understand what I meant.

...

Literary humour is fun to me.

#37 Posted by Tim_the_Corsair (3065 posts) -

I worked as a journalist and critic for a couple of years, but couldn't land a staff role and hated freelancing.

I now work full-time in an unrelated field (procurement for NSW Ministry of Health), while writing fiction in my spare time, both for fun and also pieces I am pitching for publication.

I just recieved word that a horror short story I submitted a couple of weeks ago has been accepted for publication in an anthology later this year (both ebook and print format), so I guess I'll be a professional author by the measure of how such things are judged haha. I have several short stories ready to be submitted currently as well, and a couple of novel manuscripts I am working on.

Not looking to pimp myself, but my site is http://timsweeney.net (on the mobile site so apologies if it doesn't hyperlink) if anyone is interested.

#38 Posted by stryker1121 (1394 posts) -

@xMP44x said:

@efman said:

Recent unemployed Journalism graduate here, so yes, a writer of sorts? It's really tough out there.

It is? I was considering going for journalism at university in a few years' time if I make it that far, but that's not the most encouraging thing to hear. :(

I'm a recently unemployed j-grad myself so i feel your pain...I've been a newspaper reporter for 12 years now doing freelance work for a handful of magazines and newspapers in my region. I'm getting quite a bit of work these days and it's actually pretty exciting. Newspaper journalism is having a tough go for sure. Magazine journalism may be the better bet down the line. And there will always be news sites looking for online content. Probably even more by the time you get to uni If you can write and you hustle for it, you'll be able to find something. I'm doing editorial work for a publishing company that's putting out a mag insert on young professionals, yet another option. I recently went to a seminar for "entrepreneurial journalists" (i.e. freelance writers who want to claim their own stake w/o getting tied to a desk) and was surprised on how many outlets are out there if your kung fu is strong. I don't know if I can support myself financially w/o a "real" job, but I'm going to give it a shot. A scary, exciting time for sure.

#39 Posted by WMWA (1160 posts) -

I wrote for music sites for a while. Pitchfork and HipHopDX, among others. Wouldn't recommend it. I quit to focus on my studies and launch finance website with my friend.

#40 Posted by WMWA (1160 posts) -
@TentPole

I am a writer, but I am also someone who blocked off-topic posts so I would not have to sift through bad poetry about a stranger shoving his dick into his girlfriend's mouth.

Yet here I am.

#41 Edited by efman (208 posts) -

@stryker1121 Sounds telling given the situations you've most likely weathered. It seems like if you're not a full-time writer, working for a major publication, which, let's face it, is hard to get by with in this day and age, it has a very by-the-seat-of-your-pants mentality to it, so having that one job that supports you financially is of imperative importance. Hopefully something comes out of the sending of metric tons of applications. If not, back to college, I guess. Times have changed as well, unfortunately. It's not as if a degree is a gurateed license to the very job to which your education relates, a major cause for concern these days.

#42 Posted by Everyones_A_Critic (6295 posts) -

I'm a writer, which means I never actually write and spend most of my time bullshitting around and getting fucked up, drunkenly telling anyone who will listen about how I've been so misunderstood and how my creativity is being choked by a terrible economy.

#43 Posted by Xpgamer7 (2379 posts) -

I write blogs I hope seem good. Occasionally on random sites or forums I'll post poetry or stories. I also write in notepad and save it...somewhere...Anyway, if anyone even cares I'd do light writing on a subject. I'm always toying with it anyway.

#44 Posted by MikeFightNight (1106 posts) -

@Funkydupe said:

Man.

Woman.

Machine.

What does it all mean to a freshly picked flower fading in a bed full of crack cocaine.

Aliens.

Super Mario Party 10.

/bow

wipes tears from eyes

That was... beautiful.

#45 Posted by Tim_the_Corsair (3065 posts) -

To Tread Upon The Path Of God
By Tim Sweeney

I walked.

The road stretched out before me, endless black bitumen steaming under a baleful, crimson sun.  I looked straight ahead, eyes never wavering.  There was nothing to see in any case, the brownish sands of the desert as lifeless and barren as the path I strode upon.

I walked.

The pain struck me then, as it always did.  It was the cold first, a million microscopic shards of ice driving through my skin, through my muscles, my bones.  Every nerve fired simultaneously, exquisite agony turning to immeasurable pleasure,  embracing me like an old friend.   I smiled as the pinpricks of blood appeared.  The aching, overwhelming agony was almost refreshing in the heat of that never ending day.

I walked.

My mother stood before me, dug up from the ground, her grey, shrivelled mouth open in a silent scream.  Rotten hands clawed at me, tearing my skin, trying to pull me down into the bitter earth.  My father appeared then, his visage even more cadaverous, bare bone showing through maggot-infested flesh.  My sister came next.  My two younger brothers.  My Wife.  My children.  They surrounded me, the spectres of my lost loved ones raining blows down upon me with supernatural strength, silently mouthing their banshee wails.  I smiled as I looked into their dead eyes.  I did not fear them; I had killed them myself.

I walked.

A cool breeze came up from the south, gently caressing my skin.  It seemed to push me softly, almost lovingly, away from the centre of the road, like a sparrow encouraging its chick from the nest. The dusty haze over the desert lifted then, the bulbous, heavy sun making the oasis that suddenly appeared sparkle as made of sapphire.  The wind pushed me toward this haven in the desert, and for one moment my feet almost stepped from the centre of the road, the old temptation returning.  My lips cracked as I smiled, fresh blood cascading in dark rivulets down my chin.  I would not be swayed.

I walked.

The road began to burn, instantly turning the hellfire orange of hot coals.  My feet blistered and popped, the stinking sizzle of barbequing meat filling my nostrils.  Every step was excruciating, my flesh melting to the path before tearing free again, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind me.  The road grew hotter still, turning pure white, blinding me with its brilliance.  I stumbled forward, sobbing, as the surface I walked upon burst into flame.  My skin ran and flowed, bubbling like boiling wax.  Tears dried as my eyes burst.  My lips had fused together, but somehow I smiled.

I walked.

My shadow lengthened behind me, though the sun never moved from its omnipresent station hovering above the road.  It swirled unnaturally, a stretched, grotesquely two-dimensional extension of my own body, dragging itself across the black surface until it laid flat before me.  Slowly, it stood up, peeling itself away from the road; a huge, all-consuming doppelganger.  It ignored me, surprisingly, instead walking ahead, making me follow in its footsteps,  its elongated form blocking out the crimson sun.  I could not look away.  It forced me to stare into the void at its heart.  I wavered.  This was new.  I stared into the depths of this shadowy clone, and bile rose in my throat as I witnessed the true horror of my soul.  I experienced every torture, every killing, every act of chaos.  I smiled, secretly pleased.

I walked.

The ball of liquid fire in the sky began to roil, tongues of dirty flame erupting outward across the sickly blue horizon.  It expanded before my eyes, impossibly fast, until I could see only red.  The heat was unimaginable, but this was not the price to be paid.  I wiped my brow, almost coming to a halt as I felt the great lump of hair and flesh come away into my hand.  The cancers began their rabid gnawing, tumourous growths spreading throughout my body on a wave of entropic malfeasance. My skin shrivelled before my eyes, though whether from the sun’s deathly radiation or as a symptom of the cancers, I did not know.  There was no pain.  I smiled as the weakness washed over me, exquisite numbness bringing me to my knees.  He was full of surprises this day.

I crawled.

“You would represent God?” screamed the priest, spittle flying as he loomed over my prostrated body. “You have no faith, no will to do His work!” He reared back, delivering a kick that snapped my head back, almost snapping my neck.  I smiled up at him, saying nothing as I dragged myself along the road, bloody sputum flecked by shards of teeth dripping from my bruised lips.  “Worm, you are nothing before the eyes of God!” The zealot twitched furiously as he made this last pronouncement, black and white robes billowing behind him as he kicked me again and again.  Spitting blood, I continued to smile.  By the death on my hands and the fear I had spread, I knew my God.

I crawled.

It did not end.  The priest continued his assault, my blood and fragments of bone flecking the toe of his pale leather boot.  My collarbone snapped, making me fall forward onto my battered face.  I dragged myself through the dirt, unable to rise.  He continued to kick me.  Ribs shattered.  My hip dislocated.  I felt my skull cave in, brain matter oozing through the cracks like oil seeping from the earth.  I could crawl no longer.  The smile threatened to slip from my broken face.  This had never happened before.

I died.

I lay upon my back in the middle of the road, dead eyes staring up at the bloody sun, now perfectly bisecting an impossibly black-and-white sky.  It stared back, the great crimson eye of God blinking as it gazed upon me, deific disgust palpable, crushing this vessel into the ground.

TERROR.

Broken bones began to re-knit, not at all gently.

ANARCHY.

I screamed.  Agony?  Ecstasy?

DEATH.

My lifeblood flowed back into my body, as though time wound backwards.

MALICE.

Ecstasy.  My God spoke to me!

WOULDST THOU BE MINE PROPHET?

I nodded, bones turning to liquid, heart pulverised by the word of God.

THOU HATH FAILED ME.

My body was ripped apart before I could contemplate a response, vaporous daemons appearing as if from nowhere, rending claws flensing the skin from my unworthy bones.

THOU SHALT NOT WAVER IN THINE DUTY.

I reformed once more, my soul returning from the suckling vortex that was the ever-present companion to my existence.

THOU ART YET UNWORTHY.

I nodded again, tears coming unbidden.  I had failed once more. I had disappointed God.

PROVE THYSELF.

The road stretched out before me, endless black bitumen steaming under a baleful, crimson sun.  I looked straight ahead, eyes never wavering.  There was nothing to see in any case, the brownish sands of the desert as lifeless and barren as the path I strode upon.

I walked.

(excuse any formatting issues, mobile site)

#46 Edited by TheUnsavedHero (1255 posts) -

I write from time to time. I have a bag of notebooks and papers in the corner of my living room. So many ideas and stories to tell, it's just hard to decide which one to write out first.

#47 Posted by ShaggE (6401 posts) -

I write, but I've given up on fiction. I'm just not good at setting scenes, which is kind of a big problem. And poetry? Fuggeddaboudit. The closest I can get to that without wanting to shoot myself is song parody, which I rather enjoy doing.

My personal hell is that I have ideas for days, but I'm not proficient enough in any of the mediums that would allow me to share them.

#48 Posted by SeriouslyNow (8534 posts) -

The Writer
 
There are many creatures of humanity...
 
The worker is one who reminds of us of the bee, busily crafting reality from spit and effort to form a polygonal reality where other worker bees can shore up against the rising tide of entropy.
 
The thinker is one who often recalls for us the image of the great ape admiring the precision of the stick which grants it the ability to retrieve the ant delicacy.
 
The prognosticator is one who evokes the crow; loud and capable of diving alarmingly at targets but mostly recalled as an annoying sound in the distance which is easily avoided.
 
The writer is just is a cunt.

#49 Posted by prestonhedges (1965 posts) -

What's with the product placement.

10:1 odds this guy has poems featuring Walmart, Hot Topic, and 7-11.

#50 Posted by TheWholeDamnShow (232 posts) -

@Funkydupe said:

Man.

Woman.

Machine.

What does it all mean to a freshly picked flower fading in a bed full of crack cocaine.

Aliens.

Super Mario Party 10.

/bow

*SNAPS FINGERS*