Eleventh Hour Blues- Poems, Quotes And More

A Bark In The Dark

I have been writing for a long time now. Even when I wasn't, I was pretending to. The earliest thing I remember writing was this awful poem that I tried to beautify by using a thesaurus. Back then I didn't see the beauty in the shit-pile that I call my writing. Now that I am older and my senses are dull, I see the beauty in everything. Being numb makes you do that. Being dumb makes you do that as well. I'm lucky to be both.

When you have been writing for a good part of thirty years and getting no recognition whatsoever, you start to feel like a giant piece of dung. And not the good kind that your religion claims to cure cancer. It's the giant rippling green moist kind that sours the entire day for anyone who sees it. I'm sure some day I will gain the recognition that my pompous ass thinks I deserve. It will probably be long after I have been burned and my ashes have been scattered in a river with chemical biproducts and sewage.

Until then all I can do is write the next fucking word. One word at a time. It is really that simple. Just put one word after another and soon enough you have a manuscript. Yes, the publishers who sit atop their tall irovy towers, humping their high horses from behind with their pinky fingers sticking out will probably not like it. There is a good chance they won't even read it, let alone send a rejection letter. But you and I both know that we can't stop just yet. Writing the next word is hard. Almost as hard as it sounds easy to do. And when you do complete writing it is a shame that we need to seek validation from these writer wannabes who are more interested in making money than making history.

It gets easier over time though. The writing that is. The longer you live, the more your life fills with voids, that are stuffed with complications with a sprinkling of restlessness on top. All this, as bad as it is for you, makes for some amazing writing. There will be days when you can crank out one beautiful word after another and other days when you bitch about your life 2am while writing something no one is going to read. And that's fine for someone like me who loves the silence and the dark. I guess I am done with my rant now.

I'm going to go look out of the window at the world sleeping. Everything is so still and silent. Except that one dog, standing alone in the street, barking in frustration at absolutely nothing in the middle of the night. No one understands a single word he says. At this moment, he is as much a writer as I am and I am as much a dog as he is.