Tag Archives: torture

Creative journal stored

I am creating a writer’s journal that is private and sending it to my cloud.  It is all about my thought processes throughout all my creative ventures and things that occur because of it.

I do want to be a writer and get published and I know that doesn’t seem like a reality right now in my life, due to the fact that since September I have probably written towards my novels no more than perhaps six times due to extreme depression.

But the dream is still there, to be a writer that is published.

I am trying to focus my thoughts and ignore the crap going on in my life so I can get on with it, because not writing my stories is like someone putting a chisel to my temples… its torture basically.

I thought, all the best creatives in the world keep a diary don’t they?  Well, why don’t I?  But this one with the intention of keeping it for future historians is that conceited of me?  Is that really a bad thing?

I like to think that it’s appreciated rather than judged as a form of egotism.

There are things in the diary that won’t be published until I am dead, because it will reveal problems I have undergone to maintain my individuality and it will talk about people who have literally stolen ideas from me because I talked too much in my earlier years as a writer because of the advice of “how to write” books.

It won’t just focus on my writing though, it will focus on my whole being as a creative; stories, poems, art, music, everything that inspired creation in me and had a part in the works I’ve done.  I will talk about all my projects, even those that might never get published.  Those that might never get published will always be stored away somewhere, so that in the future, perhaps someone will publish them because they want them, because they want more of me.

Again, not to be conceited, but I have to think about how much people want these things and they will and they do this thing with other posthumous authors and creatives, so why should I be any different?  It’s just forward thinking that’s all.  We often get pent up with all the process of just being ourselves we forget the larger picture, we presume we are not good enough to get to that stage where we become historical, but who are we to judge in the end?

Nobody thinks highly of themselves enough to assist historians do they?  Some do, but not many and it is a frustrating thing for historians.  I have a love for history and I have a love for certain authors of which I wanted to know more on a deeper level but they felt that they were being conceited if they spoke about themselves a lot – humble creatures really.  I am too, but I understand people and the things they yearn as I am a person too.

So that is what I am doing.  I am, from today, creating a creative diary about my writing, its processes, where I got inspiration from, my rivals, my thieves, everything about my creations is going to be documented.  If nothing else it will make me write more than I do, because it could be used as a warm up to writing instead of playing online games or ranting in my 750words.com

I will enjoy it.

Thanks for reading…

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Filed under About my work

Selfishly in pain

I am drowning in the noise of your cries

But I am too absorbed with my own

Anguish floods through me, flesh into bone

I can’t take the pain anymore

And neither can you

But your screaming is torture

You don’t have a clue

I may torture you too

But I don’t really care

Because I am hurting and life isn’t fair

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Going deaf to your misery

 

royalty free image from pixabay

DISCLAIMER – 

The below poem is not meant to be offensive – I am personally a sensory impaired member of society, I am very short sighted with astigmatism and I am totally deaf in my right ear with only 35% hearing in my left ear and I could potentially lose that, considering I have auto-immune inner ear disease.  I have only learned to develop a sense of humour with the cards I’ve been dealt with in life, please understand.

 

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of deaf

I shall hear no evil, but see a lot I might

Though I hear not the barks that scold me, I see the awful sight

Evidence of those who hate me are seen everywhere

And they sit back and they think that I really, really care

But yea, the mind is full of ego

And they shall think of themselves

I shall sit in wonderment, why they don’t put the hate on their shelves?

I wonder why every day, why they think of me?

When I have left them long ago, yet they still want to torture me?

Then I realise that those poor dears, they do not have a life

So that is why they taunt me, with curses and poisoned words of strife

They of course have an ego too, that you can be sure

That they sit around every day gossiping of the times of yore

Becoming old and bitter, making their friends think that they are a bore

By choosing to focus on the dead past, the past that makes them sore

And I sit back still amazed, that they have chosen to concentrate

On things about me, each and every day, because poisoned words always finds a way

To go back to the victim

You see that’s the side effects of your conviction

Gossip not and leave the friction

 

 

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Depths of blackness

In the depths of blackness I hear the cries of creatures drowning in their own sorrows of the thick dark night.

Souls wretched and souls bereaved, crying out to the night for love and release.

The fires of torture burn through their brains, in an agonizing heat wave how can they be saved?

Swimming through the whiny larvae of their new found home, sinking floating, choking on volcanic foam.

Tortured souls how can they be released?

How can they suffer anymore than this? For what is the purpose, isn’t this insane?

To see tortured victims burn up in the flames?

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Earth is bleeding

The Earth is bleeding because it’s abused

Being took advantage of

It is wondering why we’re doing this; it’s looking for our love

No one owns this Earth of ours; its being is wholesome and free

Yet we claim her like an object, some sort of won trophy

Why do we abuse her so?  Why do we crush her life?

When will we learn to love her?  She makes a good housewife

All she does is care and nurture, all she does is breathe

Yet all we’re intent on doing is making her further grieve

Why not work with Mother Nature and love her like we should?

Why not stop this torture and treat her really good?

My poem here has ended, but the story continues on

Take care of our mother earth, so she can live on

 

 

 

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Filed under poetry