Writing Prompt

Published pain turned into power.

When my ink went dry,

I pulled the blood from my veins,

and used it to write out every pitiful paragraph.

My pain turned palpable,

and I manipulate it,

twisting and tearing it,

until it makes a book of pretty words,

with poison in the pages.

If I am not an author,

I am nothing.

Left to my demons,

The voices In my mind.

I’ll make the stories,

I’ll pit...

I despise this book,

With all of my remaining energy,

But what if it pays the bills?

Maybe people enjoy boring tales,

With plots and characters that underwhelm-

Why is it so hard to think sweetly?

This damn book is a pool,

That sinks me in bottomless stress, debt,

But what if my work rescues me?

Maybe I’m a great author,

That made this dry idea into something ripe;

_Is thi...

The words I type are as black as the darkness that has shadowed my life. Black, like the void that swallows hope. Black, like the color of death and suffering, the very hues that have stained my existence. The story of my life, written in the darkest shade imaginable. It’s fitting, too fitting, really.

I hesitate, fingers hovering over the keys. The weight of the words is crushing, like 6 feet ...

(TW : Suicidal Ideation)

I lack inspiration,

But I don’t want to write about the things I’m trying not to think about,

As that defeats the purpose of avoding them entirely.

But without suffering,

What is there to write about?

Not when my life isn’t unique or profound.

Not when I have no transcending love that will live on in fairytales,

No valor,

No bravery,

No calling I woud die for,

Other than...

“What are you writing?” the bartender at Atomic asks me. I’ve been camped out here for the last several hours, damn my 70 year old house and its faulty wiring. As soon as my raise comes through — if my raise comes through this year — I will absolutely have the whole place gutted.

Honestly, I’m getting real sick of losing power every time a squirrel farts outside.

Hrmmm, that might be a line ...

The blank page taunts me.

Ideas swirl relentlessly in my mind

I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.

But I made a promise.

A promise to finish what he had started.

I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.

Even though he’s gone,

the show must go on....

It’s ancient

It’s irrelevant

It’s slow

It’s clunky

It’s long

It’s childish

It’s predictable

But I have to follow through

This is my life’s work we’re talking about after all…

There is no room for indecisiveness

I am now committed

Where I wish there would be inspiration there is not

Where I search for passion I don’t find it

But it’s what the people want

It’s the same as any other book...

"I hate it. That's all there is to it. I genuinely hate the fact that Urban Bloodshed gained the popularity that it did. A popularity that it gained overnight…over the fact that it’s a bad book."

Robert's eyes narrowed and his lips contorted as though Brandon had grown a pair of horns. He cautiously took a sip of his coffee before setting it on the table in between them.

"Isn't this what you w...

I’m not sure if I have anything to say.

At least that people would want to hear. How do I know what people find interesting? What would intrigue them? Can I do that?

It’s these unknowns that make me struggle. I wrestle with the self doubt and anxiety every time I write. My finger hovers above the “Post Writing” as I contemplate if anyone will care.

I like creating a world that no one has seen, ...

I slammed my pen hard on my desk and rubbed my fingers against my head to see any ideas would come out. I groaned after a hot second and hung my head off the back of my chair.

“I am actually the worst author ever!” I yelled with a sigh. “Why can’t I think of anything at all!” I towed my head off the back of my chair and positioned my elbows to lay on the desktop. I finally placed my head on m...