What makes the writer pick up the pen?
How does it begin?
By discipline? An endocrine?
A whim, a whisper in the rain? A pleasure, a pain?
What does a writer do when writing has left the realm of its desire to acquire loneliness and fashion becomes a lack of passion for the light is night and eyes cannot see the path of the pathetic, a jagged little pill, a diuretic.
Branches snap underfoot as the mind fills with soot, like a chimney sweep in the deep darkest carcinogen blinding like hallucinogen.
But could even the master clean this disaster?
Send me a London Fire I scream in the char or a drink at the bar, my mind is lost in scatter God stop the clatter that evades my..
InSpIrAtIoN.
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