I would rather just be writing,
I would not rather anything else.
Telling stories with my hands with the help of an ink filled pen.
I would rather be writing and that’s the end.
A long fable or poetry, short. I want to paint pictures with the words that fall from my heart.
I’ve talked about love and my uncertainty if in it I have been.
I’ve rambled about my home life and the opposite of blissful childhood I grew up in.
I would rather be writing and I would rather you read, because if you asked me a question, nothing is what you would get from me.
Decision making is stressful and more than a few of my thoughts about life have been dark. I have questioned my close friends devotion to me, perhaps like me within them they’re missing an important part.
I would rather just be writing, I rather write a fable, a children’s story or a poem. I wish I could write in a way that makes the reader feel as though I was standing beside them holding his or her hand. The moon has been my closet ally in stories and in some the sun has been my distant enemy.
I have spoken of beautiful women oblivious to their worth and glory and I’ve talked about both misunderstood and insidious men.
The way people romantically attached themselves to others running from pervious heart break or so they don’t have to be alone.
The way people meet and have causal sex with one another hoping it will make them feel beautiful and again so they’ll feel less alone.
I’d much rather write and that’s my movie based on a true story. Although I am intelligent enough to be a doctor or teach most subjects in a class room.
I would much rather write,
there is nothing else I would rather do.