Shoot Yourself Now.

Do you ever try to write down what it is your soul is seeking from you? You want it to be perfect and to relate to your audience. It has to be good, and catch the reader at every word. I would find insult in a person who couldn't read me all the way.

I tell you to be a god is not easy, it is a very big responsibility. One can never be sure of the person who is seeking to read your work. Suddenly things take a turn for the worse.

You stare and you waste sight on a blank screen. At first you search for a title, and try to define it. Than you look for a story to match the title that's not thought up yet. Than your story turns into a corner and you've lost it before you even lost the title.

You give it another shot. This time hit things from a different angle. You try to build a story up this time. Something should come out otherwise you have no existing thoughts of anything. How hard can it possibly be to come with ANYTHING. It's a start.

Scoffing a choked laugh you begin to allow the soul to take scripture. It starts to follow words in a sequential order and as your reading through keeping pace with the type. It's all makes sense. It's all good writing. You go on and you go on and you hit a point where maybe a finger starts to cramp, maybe your palm.

Take a pause. Waste no time so look through your work at this moment. Than you read it back and you put more thought into your thinking and you find a whole mess of scattered plots and run on sentences. You once thought these words made the strongest foundation to the perfect house of a story.

What was once filled with your strongest conviction even for as short of a time, becomes now the thoughts of idiocy. Where the fuck was I going with this story? Who would read this?! Each word is now breaking shell to the worse catastrophe since the worse catastrophe before that.

Hope you have MS Word and have corrected, not just spelling errors, but what the machine thinks are incomplete thoughts and sentences. Otherwise your composition is going to be more worse still. What has come into the earth is vile defecation of words, and sentences and thoughts that not even the simplest minded would side with it.

No one will agree. Nothing makes sense.

What a backstabbing blow it is to see the soul make sense only in you. What terrible mistake that came from the depths that control your life and your will. How devastatingly terrible you must run your life. Your sentences are as much garbage as there is scattered on your floor right now.

A sort of twist with no breaks, gains speed in your stomach. What this moment must feel like. What terrible deed of God have I done to not deserve the talent I seek.

I use to love writing, it freed my soul to the world.

Now all it does is reflect your failures. To save yourself further fury and sickness at your proposed intelligence, you give it another chance. Maybe you can salvage this, and transform it into something better. It is after all a long composition. Maybe I can find my errors.

You start at the beginning sentences and you correct a few grammatical errors. Okay that was a question not a statement which is not what it was meant to be. You correct spelling errors where ever you encounter them. Your desperate need to be smart is now being and patient and kind to the work. Not the son I've always wanted but maybe we can fix that.

You take it through to the end, and carefully scan it again as you make your way back up. Back to the beginning to see if it can make sense now. You read slowly and at first nod your head. Okay not bad, we're getting there. Than you get to the middle.

That's still a tangled mess, you read on. At the end it has made no better sense than the first draft. The twist in your stomach wins a huge gain. You come to it and all you can feel is the hatred for the work. It's unthinkable what you have just thought right here and you shan't think of showing anyone how you think. One final scan and the verdict is in.

Can't save what you don't love so you erase it all, and start over. Your ideas were too scattered so get it together. Your passion is coming into question now. How much do you really love this? Is this a chore? Don't you do this by choice? How much do you hate the accuracy of my words?

If you have erased what you've written because you know your that terrible this is not addressed to you. If you do not know if you hate what you've written, and think that it's pretty good, but it really isn't, two words, Move On. Words are heavy like steel and diamond sharp. I will shred you.

I address only the talented. The ones who can get past this stage of the art and come into an entirely different ring. The petty blogger need not concern themselves. The young and foolish should just do it to themselves. And I also present to you two words, Watch Out.

I am back to claim my rightful place on the throne. I question not a single bit my calling. I shall write what I want and it will be right. And you will be wrong. And I will be great. I have pulled out the great pen from its stone and I will reign eternally. I will have no mercy, I offer no amnesty. I warn only that you stay out of my way.

I contain more venom than it seems. I shoot to kill with my words, thus is the passion alive within me. I have no concerns for your lives or the relentless garbage that's spewed. I have one goal only, and that is to be the only one that gets read. I have the sharpest edge on every side.

I am always the first and you are always the last.