Sometimes the art I see on Instagram is so damn good that you just want to forget about everything else, the outside world and whatnot, and go for it. With the words, I mean. It’s an incredible feeling and one that is all the more prepared to get-to-it in its own right soon as I have completed a kick-ass, long run around the town park and into town. My adrenaline is buzzing, my mind content and comfortable just like it really, well and truly always should have been in the first bloody place. I am here to create writing. Not fiction, because fiction is way too… more story-based, while my stories, for other people(readers) at least, seem to only come way, way down the line(see what I did there?) Sorry… … and after many, many more readings of the poem-piece which I have created – and it is also entirely different for each reader to interpret it as they best see fit. It seems… Not creative writing because, truth be boldly told, that is a lame-ass term for something so precious and dear to someone to be stuck with getting called. And certainly not a goddamn poet! Hell-NO. So, yeah… I don’t really care one bit what category I might be placed in at this stage but, either way, I am just going with it, and someday’s I will absolutely turn out delighted with the results(maybe only mid-scribbles, never after), whereas then there will be others I’ll turn out to be totally unsatisfied with regards the barefaced fact and realisation that I have created thousands of poem-pieces these last seven years which are stuck facedown in a goddamn website. I think I might be studied, analysed, whichever, with time; not for overall story-scope and the particular talent placed within one piece of long-ass writing, but rather this strange and, maybe we could even get to one day go so far as saying, eerie ability to coin extremely expressive as well as rhythmic and description-filled, character-spewed sentences. I dunno anymore, and that is the best part of all of it right now.

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