I am a writer.

My pen is my gun.

My words are my bullets.

My eyes are my front and back sights,

perfectly aligned with my conflicted emotions (lousy shot!).

My mind a loaded cylinder.

 

I laugh with the tears of a happy child on a Summer’s day,

and weep with the falling waterfalls of a Winter widow’s heartache.

I am a never ending story – an ongoing book.

I began at the beginning, still yet to reach the middle.

And hopefully, still not for a long while yet, I am to reach the end

as prophesied by Aristotle,

Dead in bed before the final piece was itself satisfied.

Oh, cruel and bittersweet Irony!

Those who judge me do not know me

for they have only taken a glance at my cover,

and taken a glimpse of my proverbial blurb.

 

A soul as dark as coal,

beating a scarlet river of blood through my cascading veins,

and as withered as the dried up rose of Shakespeare’s cold dead heart.

On occasion comes to shine upon it a beam of garish sunlight,

encased in vines and the thorns of the still-bleeding corpse of the bitter dead rose.

 

My love is as pure as truth.

My lust as innocent as the Biblical sense.

My hate as malicious as the slithering snake’s intent.

 

Mark my words,

for this is my humanity.

 

My pen is mightier than your sword.

I audaciously knock at Death’s door –

I conquer the bastard.

I create life, birth worlds in mind’s eye

and annihilate those who come to block my path.

I shall complete my Quest.

 

I am built on the hope of Heaven

(whatever that may be to me),

destiny for if I am but a character in my own story –

who is my writer? (Am I? Perhaps, no matter how counter-intuitive) –

inspiration of my heroic predecessors.

But we all hide a beast behind the mask,

the true-self.

The writer of our own tragedies.

An omniscient narrator.

God? Satan? Heaven? Hell? Purgatory? Nothing?

 

And Us?

 

I have the power to give,

and the power to take.

The dictator of my own creations.

I abuse it, appreciate it.

Care for it, hate it.

Love it, despise it.

I survive for it, I kill for it.

I live for it, and I shall also die for it.

 

We all have a deeper intent.

Like the whisper of one lover to another,

the covenant of the lover’s bed.

The marital bed full of lies, deception and secrecy,

where one whore whispers to another, to whisper to the true lover

who in their own right is offered as Life’s infidel.

 

And I shall always have the final word.

I am a writer,

and this is my Curse.

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