Word Count - Wednesday the 9th

7,821

1,588 words tonight.

I had to force myself to write and tell myself to stop. I feel like I'm forcing it, but I know its one of those things that needs pressure before it gives way and goes into a flood again.

God, I just really need a reliable place to write.

Still, this is good. The most beautiful thing about these stories is that I can always re-write after its all done, and it doesn't take the enormous effort that it is right now simply to write the damn thing. Anyway, I know the finished piece will be wonderful, even if the rough draft is rougher then shit.

Standing Above the Crowd

I.


I stand alone in the world,
Shouting over the turmoil of an enormous crowd.
Lifted up on a pedestal.

Did I do that?
Did I put the soapbox underneath my feet?
Or was I lifted here by some purpose,
Light or dark,
Some shadowed god
With a message
A song that needs to be sung
A story that needs to be written.

I am a writer!
God, I am a writer.
I am a writer!
A WRITER.
Not an author,
Not a poet,
But a writer
Pure—
And simple.


II.


No one believes it any more,
No one listens when you try to prove
That you have fingertips glistening with magic,
With gold!
Fingertips that hold passion,
And sincerity,
Wisdom,
And pride.
My fingertips hold the world,
They hold truth.

TRUTH!
Which is what you lack, you know,
You lack truth.


III.


I’m standing above the crowd,
And I’m screaming
I’m screaming.
“Not a one of you can judge me!
None of you are in my league
None of you can touch me now!
None of you dares to touch me now.”

Though you did once,
Desperate hands pulled me down
Good people do bad things,
And this was the worst thing,
That you’ve ever done,
You good people.

You covered my mouth with your hands,
Your warm, sweaty hands.
You tore the eyes from my head,
You spat in the empty sockets that were left
You tore at my ears,
You stuck bamboo shards into them until I bled.
And then…
You broke my hands.

You broke my hands.

Were you happy then?


IV.


And then it took me a while to heal,
Oh, god, yes it did,
Through a near two years of pure torture,
But I healed.

My fingers still ache,
Lord, yes they do,
But you didn’t understand then
And you don’t understand now,
That I was put on that box for a reason,
That I am above you for a reason
That I scream at you for a reason

And a damn good one.

Though you may have struck me once,
Rendered me blind, and deaf,
Mute and crippled,
I have found a way to survive.
I have found a way to thrive.
And I will.

I will,
Even if you don’t want me to.
Even if you look at the gold in my hands,
And find it farse.
Even if you laugh in my face,
And call me a damn coward, and a damn fool,
I will conquer you.

I have fought you once,
And I will fight you again,
And this time,
you will be the one that is left bleeding.

Word Count - Friday Morning (2:30 AM)

Six thousand, two hundred and thirty three.

6,233

I AM ABOUT TO COLLAPSE FROM EXHAUSTION. AND IT FEELS MARVELOUS.

3,107 words tonight. That's in a collective two hours, maybe a little more, maybe a little less.

GOD I NEED A CIGARETTE.

Donations needed.

I'm going to bed.

Notes from the Gods

This is my letter to the world:
Why are you so cold?
I stand in the rain outside of your door,
Why don't you let me come in?
Are you frightened, my dear ones, of me?
Are you scared I offer too much, and ask so little? Waiting for a catch.
But, lo, you know the catch. You know.
Maybe I seek you after all.
You, oh! winter of discontent. With barren trees in you that have long since been stripped of fruit.
I knock at the door softly, but you dare not answer. To feel warm again, I thought that was what you wanted.
But I can only offer, you have to reach out and take it.
Are you that afraid of the truth?


And to have such gifts, you expect to give some great deal, but I only ask of you this:
let me in.
Let me fill this dark world with YOUR light. Not mine.
I am only the match and you the paper on which to strike.
The soil where you are the seed.
You are as ready for me as mankind can be, and yet here I stand.
Outside your door. And I can only knock softly.
Can you hear me?
Will you stop screaming and listen?


Resign? Me? Never!
I have way too much fun doing what I do. Maybe once in a great while I'm defined as "evil", but where did that word come from, anyway? From you. Not from me.
The person that breaks through your door and tears down your defenses is you.
You are just frightened. Frightened of me.
And I understand!
If I didn't, I wouldn't be myself, would I?
And you do know me.
You know me.
And of course... of course,
I know you.

Your life is
changing and you
don't know why.
The world is
screaming so
you cry cry
cry.

There is a time in life that you will wonder what it is going to be like when you die.
All I know of this process is the best and worst thing I can ever give you.
I will show you the world
I will show you your life
With me
And without me
And you will see in all finality
What could have been.
I will show you your box,
Full of treasures,
And you'll wonder why you never had them.
Then you will see,
And you will read the answer in my eyes:

You had only to ask.

Word Count - Wednesday

3,126 words in the last three hours.

Fist pump. Fist pump like mad.