Creative Writing Pieces

Identity (a spontaneous prose- Jack Kerouac)

holding together the world- dented and bruised with clips and screws just waiting to be unscrewed- holding- holding- holding- a baby bottle perhaps- or a mug filled with liquid drugs- addicting you so there would be no senses left for you to choose- half of it could be cold but the opposite- hot and wild as it turns in circles for infinite hours- dented as if being hit by an asteroid had only great effects- strong- more durable then before it became- the words that were once etched into the skin of it- burning- losing- fading away as the needle had once broke into it’s skin- holes now- there were none once- next- hundreds of tiny holes so small you wouldn’t believe of it’s existence- like a myth- the screw are there to fill those holes- lines- creases- bumps- all join together to make their identity- to make it who it was- damaged- oh yes- quite damaged beyond repair- nonetheless still whole- still useful- still holding- holding- holding- as tightly as before- encircling- yet trapping the world together.