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A Gift that Comes and Goes




It seems like today,
everyone's all gung-ho about
formulas: 
there are formula's to make you better
formula's to fuck you up
formulas for success, 
formula's for failure,
formulas for calculating how supremely
overweight you really are, 
and even formulas to calculate how much 
the government is allowed to steal from you, 
and of course, how much you can steal 
from the government. 

With all these numbers, 
and everyone ejaculating to efficiency
it is not surprising that everyone goes
ape-shit whenever things 
do not go 
"according to plan" 

Despite persistant attempts to 
"crack the code"
One thing remains 
that these schemers  haven't
found the formula for:
this thing?

writing; 
an art for only
patient souls 
that aren't afraid to
stop and 
live a little.

this world is full of 
Constipated Writers 
who are so concerned with
their "formulas" and finding
their "BIG STORY!" 
that they are afraid to be true
to themselves 
on the blank white sheet
that lays before them. 
the irony of the matter is,
of course that,
everybody is 
starving for
new shit. 

writing is a gift that is 
only for those patient
enough to await it's return
and time wasted for
all of those materialistic
fucks, looking for
something to keep 
for themselves
no, 
writing is something
to be shared. 

if you do not write
because it is vital 
to your survival,
do something else. 

if words do not bleed from
your pen in a torrent that 
makes your writing hand ache 
with the toils of beauty...
you're better off publishing. 

if you're writing for 
somebody else, 
don't do it. 

for some time now, I have felt
that I had "lost my mojo"...
but today I learn that 
creativity strikes
when we least
expect 
it.








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