I found myself writing pain today. Trying to scribble all the feelings I feel inside before I die. I felt no release from it.
They say when the pen hand stays you should feel some accomplishment. All I feel is a rumble in my heart as I unearth emotions I have buried.
I see my hate. And my anger. Hammer and steel they are and have become, the building blocks of all I knew for a time. I see hope as well. A desolate picture of a glass that is never empty. And never full.
My wife asks me occasionally when I will write a best seller. People on my blog that know the written me wonder when I’ll share my story. And as I struggle to write it, I wonder what’s the point.
You’ll get release! No release, even as I release myself. What pleasure from seeing your name on bound cover! No pleasure comes without the pain. My hand shakes with resolve, but what resolve is it?
I’ve written for fun. I have shared parts of my life in bite sized pieces made of blog. I have written enough to let people know that I am indeed real. Must I bleed as well?