Perhaps the story was a bit too flat
Letting it feel two dimensional
Allow your characters to take off and fly
Now I would also shave off a bit here and there
Eventually cutting out all the plain.
Emaciated emotional state
Means he didn’t even feel numb
Pushing aside those around him who care
The worst part was normally he was so full of life
Yet here he was, a walking black hole of nothingness
Perceiving the world through the lens of the soul
Ordering the chaos while making order more chaotic
Everything is their purview, and yet they focus on the basic building blocks
Those are love, loss, hope, despair and the building blocks of humanity
Selecting the right words to give strength to the tale
Managing to weld together sentences without seams
Intricate work with the hammer to make the whole thing take shape
Then quenching it with an editing pass to give it durability
How a writer forges stories from raw emotional stock
Wrestling with all the words
Recording a random assemblage of them
It is worse than a million monkeys reproducing Shakespeare
That’s when most people are ready to give up
Except you can’t. That story needs to be told, so you…
But the plot will come if you just type words. You just have to believe.
Like that would really happen. He laughed bitterly.
All it meant was the letter vomit on the page might be some sort of Rorschach story form.
He closed the document and went to bed. He had seen enough.
The rubbish he was writing piled up around him
Rambling ideas clashing with the other balderdash
Any semblance to story was pure happenstance
So when he was just about to throw the refuse away
He stumbled onto what he was going to write.
Can’t make anything out of nothing
Really that’s a crock of bull
Everyone knows storytellers weave lies into whole cloth
And wrap you up inside nice and snug
That’s the stuff godhood is made of
Even if the magic eventually fades into memory
Bursting at the seams with things to do
Under the stress of things that should have been done
Still knowing there was more that needs to fit in
Yet here I am writing poetry
So many children were screaming into the void
That the void got frustrated and threw the cacophony back
Resulting in an aural tsunami that came crashing over my consciousness
Undercutting the foundation of my sanity
Giving me a sonic lobotomy
Gone was any chance of getting anything done