With the exception of playing music and "making love," as some so beautifully describe it, writing is the only thing in this world that can find me on the dirty, soggy ground and jerk me instantly into an attractively-postured stance while slapping an unmistakably geniune smile upon my formerly pitiful face.
So many things about writing are so wonderful. I love the feeling before I write when I have an idea of what I might write and I can already see so many possibilities before I even touch the pen. During my writing I have an undescribable feeling of complete ecstacy that only ends with the completion of the work. But soon after this feeling flees, another of equal magnitude follows. It is a sensation of utmost pride that something as wonderful as I now read has come from my mind.
Although sometimes I think that my mind itself is not capable of what I do. I get the feeling that there is something else working through me. A sort of "Holy Ghost," only perhaps not so holy.
Whatever it is that jumps inside me when I write obviously wants to be heard, so check out some of my work below
So many things about writing are so wonderful. I love the feeling before I write when I have an idea of what I might write and I can already see so many possibilities before I even touch the pen. During my writing I have an undescribable feeling of complete ecstacy that only ends with the completion of the work. But soon after this feeling flees, another of equal magnitude follows. It is a sensation of utmost pride that something as wonderful as I now read has come from my mind.
Although sometimes I think that my mind itself is not capable of what I do. I get the feeling that there is something else working through me. A sort of "Holy Ghost," only perhaps not so holy.
Whatever it is that jumps inside me when I write obviously wants to be heard, so check out some of my work below
- Last seen on Nov 16 2:54 AM 2006. Member since March 7, 2004.
- I'm a moonstone path poet for 465 comments.
- My mood is , and quote is "I'm a Huge fan of lesbians...and gay chicks...".
- I am a guy (United States)
- When I'm not writing, I'm a member of a dying breed of Musicians.
- Visit my homepage at www.electricvoodooband.com
- I have 465 comments, 34 poems, 4 stories
My Poetry
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Holding you but my hands are cold,
And they burn you right to the bone, -
And smiles from thoughts of your love’s shade would nevermore into a frown be bent,
My Stories
1 - 3 of 4
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Auldous Ford resided in New Mexico, for the most part. He had no real home–or at least no physical evidence of one. His home was New Mexico, but never did he know a
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An Introduction by Roderick Bertram
She had long, dark hair–which I particularly enjoy. She had no name, so I called her Darlin’. I was in love.
