The writer's heart
Online they play the fool
They make you think they're all cool
But underneath their facades they're nothing but cruel
They'll stab you in the heart to get a good shout of joy from the crowd
Or they'll bring you a giant horse full of traitors and exclaim that it's for you then you rip it open and out come false, false, false, cruel exclamations and explications.
It's all you, you, you, you.
You're too annoying, you're too stupid. You're dumb for believing the lie. We never did. We never needed you.
You forced yourself where you weren't wanted both times and both times the rejection stung. But it stung more the second time, oh yes it did.
The phony friends take off their masks to show hideous demons underneath who taunt you about your weaknesses. Then they run away, presenting the blissful face of innocence again to anyone else they encounter.
The others merely told falsehoods, easily forgotten as time goes on, but this pain hurts worse. You didn't shed a single tear during that time. But man do you shed tears this time. The pain hurts you let these people in and they ripped you apart, apart. Apart.
There is nothing left but pain and anger. Oh so much anger at them.
But you must move on from lies.
For what you value most is the truth. You cannot stand liars.
That is why liars dig into your flesh like mosquitoes.
Sometimes, you wonder why people are so cruel and capable of such evil.
All over lines in a book.
All because our imaginary creations are better than yours and you can't share the playground with us.
How stupid it is you think. To confine yourself and your imaginary drawings within the limiting and dumb idea that only certain people can look at your creations or get to explore your sacred world. All while borrowing from someone else.
You create so everyone will enjoy your work. There are no limits. You don't want to exclude anyone. These people enjoy excluding people. It is a hierarchy of favoritism of arrogant people who feel they're better than everyone else.
So you join them.
But no one approaches. It's too lonely. So you leave.
And you feel much better.
Without the chains of their bullshit tying you down you are free to do whatever fiction you like without their bullshit hitting you.
Free from fake friends.
Free from everything.
Free from jealous people and the wicked gossips.
Free, free, free. Free to be you.
That's what writers ought to be after all. Free.
Free creatures sharing their words for all.
My work is not work for a paltry few to enjoy, it is for all.
Never forget the little people below you as you write, for it is for them you write for.
You write for them and must remember always how small humans are.
No matter how many lies society tells you, the writer will not stop telling the truth, no matter how much it hurts. No matter how many times his soul stings from sticking his pen into his veins and writing, no matter how many times his words feel too real, that is the purpose of writing.
To make things real. To make things matter.
He is the writer. It is his destiny to create and weave things that are unreal into reality. He creates his own reality.
His characters are real to him and his characters carry pieces of himself within them.
It is natural to see why others would envy one who is unafraid to speak the truth, because they are covered from head to toe in lies. From the bullies who tried to stifle his voice when he was young to the teachers who told him he could never be a writer, every time he writes it is in defiance of them.
Writing is the truth and the writer will not stop writing. That is his voice and he will not be silenced until his heart stops beating. For the sake of truth, for the sake of beauty and for the sake of all things beautiful and good and bad, the writer writes on.