I'd write until infinity and I'd never write bland.
I'd write for respect, revenge, and escape-
I'd write to prevent my next mistake.
But a writer I'm not, at least not yet...
writers turn shadows into silhouettes.
You see, I can turn words into elegant phrases-
but this only happens in spurts and in phases.
Sometimes I pause, and words I will see-
They appear in a cloud that floats over me.
I remember thinking that the words were there,
now back to reality, back to despair.
Procrastination-now envelops me...
Procrastination, a writer's worst enemy.
It is a defense mechanism, that's protecting my pride-
but I don't need protection when my brain is supplied....
With free flowing thoughts, and free writing verse-
I think I have the antidote for this "thought stealing" curse.
I must start writing, procrastination no more-
I must think freely, self motivation's the cure.
So back to work I will go again,
I've got my paper, I've got my pen--
I've got my thoughts, I'm leaving my pride-
I am now seeing that cloud, and it has words inside.
My thoughts are now forming, I'm ready to write-
The block is now over, the result...insight.
So what should we write about? What have we learned?
To begin with, I think that a candle's been burned.
And think of that flame, bright and unique-
Now think of great writers and their great mystiques.
There's Shakespeare and Twain, Whitman and Yeats-
These are just a few amongst a myriad of greats.
They've opened doors, they've paved the way...
They've written works that are here to stay.
So what has influenced me and the way that I write?
A plethora of things have ignited my light.
I've tried at business, I've tried in sport-
but this doesn't compare to the writing retort. For business and sports will always be there,
but a pen and some paper will always be fair.
Fair to the heart, and fair to the mind-
My subliminal thoughts are becoming sublime.
Myself as a writer, I really don't know?
In the heat of the summer, is the ever snow?
Cuz' that's what I am- a contradiction of sorts-
My mind is filled with these clever retorts.
But these witty remarks will never be known-
I am a man, with feelings of stone.
Although my mind is able, my words stay inside-
but with a pen and some paper, my words can now hide.
Hidden on paper, locked in a drawer,
I don't think that I want to hide anymore.
How does the saying go- "two birds with one stone?"
My manhood and my wit are better left alone.
Two separate entities, and two different places-
I am a person with two different faces.
The one with my friends is all fun and games-
The one with the pen is the one they'd call names.
Myself as a writer? I am starting to see-
is a stranger of sorts, an anomoly.
An anonymous person, with a face and a name-
epitomizing shyness, but playing the game.
For the game of free-verse, that's played with the pen-
can be just as rewarding as sports with my friends.
Are writers born, or are they created?
I didn't used to write, but I have been persuaded-
By freedom of speech, and freedom of mind-
a therapeutic outlet, that is imperative to find.
Myself as a writer- it is now crystal clear-
I know that I feel safe right here.
So this is where I'll stay, for now at least-
Inside I'll write, outside I'll feast.
I am a writer, with a pen in my hand-
I will write forever, I'll never write bland.
I'll write for respect, revenge, and escape-
and this will prevent my next mistake.
I am a writer, in spirit and soul-
and now I have achieved my ultimate goal....
of self-fulfillment, both inside and out-
and this is what writing's about.
--Jason Flashner
