To write.

Writer's cramp daily entry - the monologue of a feverish soul.

Prompt ▶︎

Write a story or poem that includes the following words - bolded, please:

angered
backbone
confused
delicious
energized

Word count: 463

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To write is to be angered - feeling that energized restlessness welling up in your confused heart. My soul, my backbone to the canvas I paint and stroke. The glamorous fire fuels my vein a molten rush - blood pumped and seeps through my hands - upon the page I inked with my own flesh - behold the delicious masterpiece others could feast and dine upon!

Oh behold, behold it! Praise, deem the words wretched! Read, feel my soul etched. The ovation, the applause. Lend the limelight to my finery, embed it in the buttery gold as the audiences stood agape. Hear my voice, hearken to me! Behold it!

Oh, just behold it.. don’t let my room echo in silent silver, moonlight trickling down my grasp.

My stage.. my gilded crowd. How I relish, how I miss… You were once within my reach. Now, you let me submit away. Where fared thee those many days?

With pen on paper, heartbeat raging my words. But never again did you heed my way. The life I cherished died ablaze. The newborn fires had burned my heat astray.

I turned a new page each day, dread filled through blackened curves. Stoked be my wrinkled touch, carved away at the wooden desk. Never once did I livid, but still you stripped my life - dismay.

For once, you gave me hope. Showed me life through tinted rose. Gave me ropes to dote upon. Now it worn away in the dust. Moped by none as a promise wrote: “Brightest star to lead the North.”
I tried - and I coped. I believed - and I cried. Wet my book - and remained your hide. Oh, my lord - what had I died for?

Sat the silence in the room. Crept the words on the page. Whisked the wood-rotten desk. It walked a mirage behind glass - the murmur protruded stopped being my own.

Never my own. Not my own. Oh, my life - never my own. Oh, my words - not my own. Shadowed thoughts - the grand glory of hazy days. What had I been living as?

Sat the wrecking in the room. Crept the words on the page. Whisked the wood-beaten desk. It walked a mirage behind cracks - the thumps protruded stopped being my own.

And it shall never be my own. Let the moonlight bathe the mess. Let the whisper carry the damned. I shalln’t kneel to my own past. Oh, the freedom I longed..

Pen in hand, I sat back. My own fable awaited anew. Then I scribbled, the oldened road - no longer for the crowd, but for my own muse.

Oh to write, to write. How I’ve forgotten. To write is to be angered, the anger of a restlessness washing over my chest. My heart, my soul, I dedicate to the canvas I paint and stroke…

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My thoughts on the story ▶︎

uh idk what to yap about this one other than the fact that i wrote it in one go with no edit and revision. enjoy!

the prompt wasn't that challenging to tackle with, in fact, thats immediately the first thing that popped up in my mind after i read the prompt. hope it was worth your time reading! peace out~