Philosophy of Writers

And we bleed from the tip of our pens, dragging the black blood across the paper, pouring out words, making out sentences. Our words beat out emotion, we know how much it hurts, we know how bad a memory can be, but we bring it back to life anyway. We throw everything we have into the pen and make out magic, that's if we can. We know how pretty pain can be, we know the prettiest ink comes in red. We take moments and freeze them in time, no matter how much it'll hurt, we take the blow.

We are the pain the mother feels when her little whore doesn't come home. We are the misery of the little shit who sits and cries over a boyfriend. We are the idiots who know nothing of the world. We are the kings and queens with nothing to live for but money and fame. We are the singer who lost his touch. We are the hooker with no one in line.

We have no problem drowning our victims in the ink we write in. We have no problem making out roses, and putting them on the grave of the young woman we've always hated, oh, we have no problem. We're liars, we're cheaters, we're killers. We paint masks to get our way, to have peoples' memories poured on paper, to have people thinking they're crying over a myth. We may stain our hands in the blood of our victim, but who gives a damn now? We stalk the night, they have no clue. Our guns and pens are ready to be loaded with our pretty red ink.

We are the father who doesn't know what to do anymore. We are the bride who knows he isn't "the one". We are the teenagers whose hands are red and their classmate too. We are the girls in the bathroom who look in the mirror, afraid to grow old. We are the unsent love letter that sits on the kitchen table. We are the rebels who go against the machine.

Look at us, look at us now. Here we stand, as writers, as murderers, as poets, whatever, just look at us. We are everything, as well as nothing. We're everything you hate in a person, we're everything you want, wish, to be. We're the attention whores who cry over nothing, we're the teachers who stare you down, we're the boys who sit in the alley way. You wish were us, you wish you had ink running through your veins, you wish you had something to live for, you wish you could make a difference, even if it's on paper. You wish you could pick up a pen and write in our beautiful golden ink. Oh, you wish you could. You want our happy endings, you want our pity, you want our stupid thoughts.

Oh, you wish you could. You just wish.
And we continued to bleed, it never stops. Once we start, we can never go back. Our pens keep on moving, we never stop. Our words pour out, along with our blood, but we never bleed to death. Sometimes we wish we could, sometimes we want to, this will never happen, because death isn't a choice.

We're liars. We're killers. We're cheaters. We're writers.

We force our smiles, we fake our screams, come and see what we have planned for you. Get ready, we're coming, our masks painted on, our guns and pens loaded. We'll walk on sunshine, to get to you. We'll force this poison into our arms, to get to you. We'll twist the sane, to get to you. Be ready, we're coming.

And our guns are loaded. And our minds are set. And we're young and reckless; don't test us. It's seven past eight; here we go. Get ready, we're coming.

Like a bed of roses, there's a thousand reasons in this gun. Scream for mercy, give us pleasure, make us smile behind these painted faces. We'll make your skin crawl, we'll make you feel sick. We're not stopping, until we're dead.

By: Lola Kiribati