The Hands of a Writer

My hands are not calloused, they are soft, gentle. They are the hands of a creator, but stone and steel I do not build with. These hands are made for more delicate things. I build words, phrases, clauses, paragraphs, ideas, but more importantly, worlds.

Though I build worlds, people do not call me god. They call me man.

A brooding baron of the ballpoint pen.

A fearful pharaoh of the word processor.

I am those things, but more. I am a writer. Talk is cheap, but words, words are expensive.

A few of my favorite things…

  • I love the smell of winter; that chill in the air, the aroma of frost and rime.
  • I love the first sip of coffee; the curling of the upper lip before the touch of heat surges through the opening of my mouth, filling it with liquid energy.
  • I love the smell of tomato stalks being pilled or cut; it transports me to my youth, running in the yard as my mother gardened.
  • I love the feel of wood grain; the unfinished grooves and curves of freshly cut cedar or pine send shivers to my spine.
  • …

The Fighter.

There is a man who is strong and brave. He simply cannot be anything else, it is all he knows. His bravery is matched by his strength, and with the combination of these two traits he conquers every problem that comes before him. He has no equal, since he has given his whole heart to his cause, and his whole mind, and he waits for the right moment to strike. He has won many a fight, with honor and dignity, and even in loss he has pride. More knowledge is gained through a loss than a victory, and it could be said that he was a knowledgeable man. By no means does he lose frequently, but his largest strides have come from a defeat. He is a military man, and his eyes are dark and hair dark and skin tanned. He is a fighter, and as such he fights.

It was a hot day. Not the hottest it had been that week, but the temperature was high and there was sweat on the man’s face. His opponent was shorter than him, but his arms were wider and the fighter knew that he would be slow but strong. The opponent’s color was yellow, and the fighter’s was black. The fighter felt like he was a hundred yards from his opponent, but they were only thirty feet. The crowd was screaming names; the fighter only heard a solemn chanting sound, drowning out the names, drowning out the crowd. He stepped forward, arms at the ready. The bell was struck twice, and the fight was on.

Sepulcher

The tomb was dark, and it always wanted to remain that way. The secrets it held from the living hated illumination, hated being cast into light. The dead have their ways about them. Ghosts mock the living that visit the graves, the living are not wanted, their sentiment wasted. The interred have only the past. They can relive it as they please.

The cold feeling one gets when all alone in the dark, that lonely feeling of being watched; that is the dead replaying a favorite memory. Reliving it within the set-pieces and confines of their old homes, or their old haunts. 

It is known among the entombed that there is no wisdom like the wisdom brought on by six feet of dirt above you. Death is final, but life is full of possibilities. Life deserves the future, leave the past to the dead.

Live a life worthy of being relived.

Regrets

In this emerald and sapphire home that calls us parasites, there are many who live without regret. Those who pass through the graying days with the future before them, and a faded, sepia-toned view of the past. They regret not, and remember not. Their memories (the few they do retain) are askew, justified, and filled with justifications; They cannot recall how they were, the wrongs they’ve done, but they certainly know each wrong bestowed upon them. They hold their grudges, but expect none. 

I am not one of those people.

I remember everything.

Regret is hard work, but it is work to better oneself.

Apathetic

Eh.

That’s what goes through my mind these days. Do I take a risk on life? Or do I just fall to the safe side of things? When indifference overcomes there’s little to no room for anything else. This is me, at my most apathetic, a twenty-something who can’t be assed to do something worthwhile with his time. I guess when the whole world is worthless, what is there to put value in?

“This summer is hot, too hot,” he said through a drag of his cigarette, “like somethin’ up there turned the easy-bake to eleven.” He rolled the butt of his smoke between his fingertips, eyeing the tar stain in the center of the filter. His unkempt hair, beard, and general appearance showed how little he cared. His lungs were filled with smoke and tar and death. He exhaled with force, like he’d just had enough and he was ready. His hazel eyes almost glowed green in the sunlight, unnatural but beautiful. I averted my eyes for a moment, as if the ‘portals to the soul’ as they’ve been called would reveal my thought. “Fuck this world, man, like, I’m just fucking tired and old and done.” 

“You’re not old and tired, you’re twenty-fucking-three.” 

To be Poe(tic)

vaudevilliandevil:

vaudevilliandevil:

There is a trapping, hiding and a-wrapping, gently through my napping, and in my dreams a clapping. The sanity that bears on me, that fears for me, and sears me ever so gently comes calmly to me. His brother, the insanity, comes manically bringing agony, but even therapy cannot save me. I am ill, unwell, dripping my blood from this inkwell, waiting on my windowsill looking down below to hell. Leap, leap, leap; and pray oh lord my soul to keep, keep from from this demon’s knell, far from where the demons dwell, fill me with your light, see me smile with delight. Or set this flesh alight? What I have done is not right, all I do is write, and write, and write. All I am is ink and bones, ink and bones, ink and bones, and all you are is blood and life, blood and life, blood and life.

Shameless reblogs because I love what I wrote last night.

Vaudevillian Devil: Broken Record

vaudevilliandevil:

I sometimes feel like I’m broken; well, not fully, maybe just cracked, like a record. There something that keeps me spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, and the first time around I was interesting, but now I’ve repeated, repeated, repeated, repeated, myself too many times. There’s an ugly air…

Mistakes

vaudevilliandevil:

There are so many to count, ones I could never deream (dream) of fixing or mending, but there’s something sickly sweet about having a bucket no—a dumpster—filled with them. It’s knowing that even if you make the samemistake (same mistake) twice, as I have so many timeds (times) before; you will never make the same mistake twice. There are always different circumstances and different outcomes. Evertything (Everything) can be simplified into a flaw or common failing of the person, buit if something makes you happy, I mean really, really happy. Go for it, then, go for it, and fail, and make the same mistake a million times. As long as you learn every time from them, and learn that mistakes make you stronger. Then live your life, strong and happy.

To be Poe(tic)

vaudevilliandevil:

There is a trapping, hiding and a-wrapping, gently through my napping, and in my dreams a clapping. The sanity that bears on me, that fears for me, and sears me ever so gently comes calmly to me. His brother, the insanity, comes manically bringing agony, but even therapy cannot save me. I am ill, unwell, dripping my blood from this inkwell, waiting on my windowsill looking down below to hell. Leap, leap, leap; and pray oh lord my soul to keep, keep from from this demon’s knell, far from where the demons dwell, fill me with your light, see me smile with delight. Or set this flesh alight? What I have done is not right, all I do is write, and write, and write. All I am is ink and bones, ink and bones, ink and bones, and all you are is blood and life, blood and life, blood and life.

Shameless reblogs because I love what I wrote last night.

To be Poe(tic)

There is a trapping, hiding and a-wrapping, gently through my napping, and in my dreams a clapping. The sanity that bears on me, that fears for me, and sears me ever so gently comes calmly to me. His brother, the insanity, comes manically bringing agony, but even therapy cannot save me. I am ill, unwell, dripping my blood from this inkwell, waiting on my windowsill looking down below to hell. Leap, leap, leap; and pray oh lord my soul to keep, keep from from this demon’s knell, far from where the demons dwell, fill me with your light, see me smile with delight. Or set this flesh alight? What I have done is not right, all I do is write, and write, and write. All I am is ink and bones, ink and bones, ink and bones, and all you are is blood and life, blood and life, blood and life.

Broken Record

I sometimes feel like I’m broken; well, not fully, maybe just cracked, like a record. There something that keeps me spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, and the first time around I was interesting, but now I’ve repeated, repeated, repeated, repeated, myself too many times. There’s an ugly air around me, something palpable, that fills my lungs and tries to show me that I’m not, not, not, not, good. I’m still good, for the most part, but no matter how hard I try, try, try, try, to cover up the broken skin and broken dreams, they’re visible. The sit on the surface of my skin like dye, dye, dye, dye, and they’ll be with me ‘til the day I die, die, die, die.