#wlwwritingnet

me(11:03pm): dunno. feeling, i guess.

you(11:03pm): you mean thinking?

me(11:04pm): nah. two different things you know?

you(11:06pm): no, not really.

you(11:06pm): you and your words.

me(11:08pm): i’ll take that as a compliment.

you(11:08pm): is it tho

you(11:08pm): i mean. like, sometimes words are just flowery. superfluous. excessive. they hold no meaning. they’re just

you(11:09pm): you know

me(11:09pm): there?

you(11:09pm): yeah

me(11:09pm): so you’d say the same about writing then? just words upon words upon words, strung together and empty? meaningless?

you(11:11pm): you aren’t even making sense. course writing is different. it can’t be meaningless.

me(deleted, 11:11pm): why not? you can write with enough words, put them atop one another in mounds to rival mountains, but once the wind takes them, there’s no echo. no reverberation, no life changing epiphany. nothing but a breeze. fleeting, passing, whispering. but that’s it. there’s no meaning, no allegory. just emptiness. nothing but an underwhelming current.

me(11:13pm): yeah. ok.

you(11:14pm): what’s it to you anyway? in general, they won’t ever really matter unless you’re writing a report or whatever.

me(deleted, 11:18pm): you talk of writing as if it is a mere skill, something you hone for the sake of honing. although, no, you are not wrong. there are those indeed who view writing as tedious, something you must do, have to do. but not me. writing is something so huge and wondrous that even words fail to describe it. i don’t think words will ever be able to describe it. writing is a passion. it burns souls, cools hearts. it forges worlds and brings forth destruction, creates entire beings. it so much more than grammar and punctuation and your forsaken essays. it is this: me and you, right here, right now, glowing letters and attempted eloquence. it is this: the scratch of pen on paper, the bitter smell of ink. it is this: frustration at words you find yourself unable to say, unable to put together to convey what you want them to convey. it is this: the never-ending search for meaning. it is this: joy and happiness and accomplishment (i can still feel my hands shaking, holding the book i had published for the first time). it is this and that and so much more. it is everything. it is my everything. writing is overwhelming in all forms, in all aspects. it is all-consuming. it will never be simple. it will never be something you can just label and push away. perhaps that’s why you will never understand it. perhaps that’s why i do.

me(11:20pm): yeah i guess.

Hey there, darlings. Weeks and weeks ago I made a small poetry chapbook which was free for download. It had around 4 to 5 small ‘poems’ in there and I got lovely and some other reviews that I was able to use well. I have added more things to it and it has now 21 small poems, or whatever people may call them these day. Now, I don’t normaly do this but i’ve had a very rough year and the year ahead of me is getting even worse, so hence this post. I am putting this on payhip for only 1 dollar, because I need to pay my school fees, and my parents are having issues themselves. I truely hope you consider cheking it out and give me your thoughts. I would mean the universe to me!

“your throne is made of ebony as you watch the furies slaughter the guilty. the pride you hold is uncanny as you are unmoved by sacrifice and prayers.”

A collection of 21 small poems, and thoughts from my mind.

GET IT HERE FOR 1 USD

me(11:05pm): i have no intention of falling without being caught.

you(11:05pm): im right here

you(11:06pm): why are you so afraid?

me(11:11pm): because you are already everything, and the fact that you could still be more is terrifying beyond belief. 

me(deleted, 11:13pm): you are so beautiful, the difference between us so vast. i became so lost in trying to navigate you that i don’t know if i can find the way back to myself anymore.

hope was a dangerous, disquieting thing, but he thought perhaps he liked it.