Writing

The Mythical Wall of Blocks

A tale of warriors on adventures and worries scared to venture.

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There isn’t always a clear path when staring at a journey. Excuses are unacceptable. Walls are no reason. Spilling the ink is the only truth. Yet, warm masks cry reason.
Without aim or direction an image forms itself. Narratives aren’t born, they’re crafted from struggles. Pointless clicks and scribbles grab hold of the ether and drag down the fantasies pleasantly floating about. Shapeless as they may be alone, collections get named. Ink formed into abstract ideas discussing themselves.
Meanwhile cosplay myths and tales of pens run dry strike fear into the hearts of warriors beginning their path. Religions designed to confuse. Fictions more crippling to the wanderer than the stories eager for design.
But the true explorers don’t fall victim. They travel, even with the fear deep…

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Throwing Stones

Some of us struggle more than others in facing our demons.
Jack tells of how he faces his own.
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The Glass is foggy. House is half full. Can’t type ‘cause I’m a little groggy. Need it at night so I drool. Not sure whether lying or right. Caught in the pipe. Dream above the clouds. Asleep to escape the night. Bare and weak I see myself. Bleak, a life, hell, shrieks. Got health. Quite wealthy. Still can’t stand my fucking self
So I bury myself, before I die and just wait out the time. Fade out the lines
Color the pages. No one else can see. But, it is what it is. So it’ll be
Rainbows sparked in flames hope to erase the shame. No. They change only the same flow 

”Don’t fool yourself, foolish self. This hell is your prison cell.
Intoxicated, you ain’t well
This isn’t what you wanted is it?
You brought it. Miss it? Listen
You had it. Dissed it. Dip-ship
Put this outfit on. Cluck like a chicken ‘till you get whats going on
Take these feathers if they’re…

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I'm Not Rapper

Rap

Lyrics by Jack Thomas

The world is in a perpetual state of chaos.
Let it get to you and get nothing done.
Learn to accept the universe is uncontrollable
And it’ll be under you’re control

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Hopeless, smoked chest, cough, toke, rest

Broke bloke, vest, glock, coke, meth

Dope bag, hot block, do-rag, crack rocks, hot spot, clock in, crackhead smack talk
Bake in the sun, sirens, scared of bacon chasing gun violence
Gotta run, hide things, no more fun, five years isn’t worth a try, fear, let it keep driving

Steer, the blazing bush speaks ideas, smoke and mirrors, head kushined in clouds, reeks, the voice bleak, speaks loud, clear,
“Make your move now or lose out. No boohoos allowed. No tears.
Stand out. Choose what goes down. Don’t be held bound, be hell-bound.”
Clip in the hand, ticking trigger finger, mad, at the nigger killer, sad, and little bitter

But the pigment, though a figment, like a brand creates fictions in the minds of indignants. Like a clan they’re persistent

Back around, ready, seeing red, eyes steady
Thought tough, slipped up, tripped, shit bluff
Not quick enough, not slick, fucked up, tough luck
In a daze trapped in a haze, crazed laughs, let it phase to the brain
Blast him away
Regret settling before meddling, ring the bell to raise the devil, win in a fit of rage, strange compelling crave to misbehave
The end is just a blink away, need to hide and…

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Loosen The Grip

The most difficult challenge a writer faces is learning to be less critical of themselves. To allow the work to stand on its own. Learning when to stop editing themselves and how to let go of the work when its time.

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Click, click, click… Typing away at the keyboard. Minutes morph into hours, then days, then weeks. Before too long, months have gone by. A hundred thousand words on a manuscript. The deadline for the first chapter is in a month. It’s time to edit that first chapter. And edit. And edit. And edit that first chapter.

Typing away at the keyboard. Minutes morph into hours, then days, then weeks. Before too long, a month has gone by. Ten thousand words edited to the fullest of my ability. All the little finalizations required get attention. That nervous shiver of whether or not something is going missed. Confidence is hard to have, but I know it has to be let...

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Why?

Feeling closed inside but unable to stop the strive.
This lyrical poem shows Jack’s fight and what he might do given the try.

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Do I feel weak?

Is it I refuse to speak of how my thoughts are bleak
Shriek inside, seek relief, heart dry dead mounted on a cross, I’m so fucking lost
But I refuse to think ‘cause I’ll sink into a slump and shrink
Lumps stuck in my throat, I’ll begin to choke, start feeling cold
Reckless and out of control but I won’t let go ‘cause there’s no telling where this car’ll go
It’s nowhere any of us would want to know
Obsessed with little regrets, don’t believe in hope
Lie to myself, “I’m the best,” “Not a mess,” “I can do this, though.”
Infest my mind with screaming voices testing me
Deafening noises
Definite poison
Stay poised when the moment is pointing three fingers back as I fade to black
In the middle of a heart attack that…

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Self-Taught

Jack rambles about not believing in writers block and explains why.

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Once in a while I draw blanks when attempting to come up with something new to write. But I don’t quit. I’m well trained. Disciplined enough to know just by writing my thoughts down I’ll get somewhere.

I’ve taught myself to expand on seemingly any amount of writing through nothing but will power. I’ve stopped believing writers block is anything more than a state of mind the inexperienced go through. It’s become too easy to turn nothing into something.

See, one of the main lessons about writing is to understand that what one means when they say ‘being a writer’ what they really mean is being a self-editor. Understanding how to twist and turn your own words into something greater than they were on the first round.

Take the first few sentences of this very aimless rant, for example. I can simply change the perspective to third person and pretend I’m telling you the story of a struggling writer. One who is about to force through his writers block and come to the conclusion that anything is possible with a little effort. But in reality this started as nothing more than a mental exercise. Nothing more than my writing to myself about not knowing what to write. Yet, that turns out…

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Determined

A simple rap by Jack taking jabs at the way the masses live.

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I’m a wit mess that leave no witness when I pen with quickness
My words are my vest
I invest in morphing into the best by tossing all of my stress into the canvas

Shots fired
The effort will go admired, but maybe it’s time you retire
Understand I am the man with the skill you wish you had

Hi, I’m Will
Here’s the way out
Follow it
We’ll all be proud you’ll no longer be around getting loud about all the stacks your raps catch
Yet, somehow tomorrow at work, you’ll be right back
9 - 5, your life is like that

I’m not, mines not, It won’t
I won’t be caught
I said the pen would put food on the table
I haven’t been hungry enough to eat my words yet
Although I’m able
This shopping list is long and I’m…

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Notebooks

Jack reflects on his old relationship with notebooks versus his new one with the laptop.

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There’s a safe comfort which comes from writing in notebooks. The keyboard feels cold and uninspired. A lot of effort goes into coming up with fresh ideas. But here in the notebooks it’s liberated and easy. Even emotional displays come as second nature when hand written. The skills acquired for expression as a child were developed in notebooks from the start. it’s home.

Losing sight of the simpler things in life that matter the most happens to all. Forgetting that joy and satisfaction come from the things loved occurs often.

I’m guilty of forgetting where I come from. That writing is what ultimately matters. That there is no right or wrong way to do it so long as it gets done.

I have to remember, when I struggle, that the notebooks always welcome me.

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Writer with Excuses

A Rant on writing, writer’s block and writing excuses.

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Running out of ideas. Time to gather new ideas seems short, slippery. When visualizing time I’m looking at the wrong things, seeing it in reference to life instead of the moment. But how useful is a long life spent working and collecting money, never having enjoyed life before death?
Priorities need to be better aligned. To consume as much as is made. As it is, I have more output than input and the tank is headed towards empty. As all the juice is squeezed out of the same withering thoughts, they become abstract and raw. Emotionless information. They’re dissected beyond purpose. They’re just parts. A car brought down to its basic components.
With organization it should be possible to compensate. I have to get over myself. Too much, “I’m too good for this,” or “I’m too busy for that,” going on. If there is time to waste there is time to spend. I need to bring the courage to settle my mind and make drastic changes without dreading the adaption process. The period of change where one feels lost. I should be chasing that feeling as if it were the guiding force. That feel of unfamiliarity is important to inspire and it’s the muse I’ve been missing.
I get too comfortable in my ways and methods. Although they work, there should be new material as often as there is new method and craft developed.
Sometimes a story needs to be told. I need to paint a picture. What good is having shiny freshly sharpened tools if they never get put to use? Hanging out in the tool shed polishing and sharpening, but never using? All this talk of purpose and meaning, yet, here I am avoiding change that’ll supply stories with purpose and meaning to share filtered through my lenses.
I need to get my shit together and be the goddamn writer I pretend to be.

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Jaded Creator

Poetry on the addiction of creation while feeling uninspired.

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I’m jaded
There’s no meaning
I hate it
Stuck in a slump
Yet, I don’t give a fuck
I can’t give up
Scratch at the wall
Claw away at it all
It’s madness
The choice to struggle
Wage war on the mirror
Sink in a dark place
Let the thoughts get unclear
But that’s the point, I think
When I conquer the monster
With my moves and dancing
When the battlefield is a shrapnel infested graveyard of failed ideas
Scars
To hone the new skills learned
Laws
Squeezed the wisdom from the stone brought home
Analyze the flaws
The sculpture left behind
Proof that I came out the other side the victor
To the crazy
To the mirror
That I faced myself
When I quivered I pushed through
And delivered
Nothing stood in my way
I can say “I’m still here,”
It remains true
Introspection
A writer writes
I find a way and stop whining
There’s always a way

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Learn to Create

A thought on creativity.

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Neither Skill nor Talent contain the capacity of Wisdom afforded with time and effort.
Understanding breeds method and method affords freedom.
Freedom then fuels creativity.

Do to learn.
Learn to understand.
Understand to improve.
Improve to perfect.
Create.

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Write

I keep thinking there’s a way
There’s no way
That’s just a story I choose to say
To face the fact there ain’t shit
Trapped in loops that can’t be escaped
Trying to scoop slices of truth without knowing how to do it
Its meaning and purpose I seek but don’t see
Through denial I don’t speak but keep doing
I’ll understand if I stick to it

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The Philosophy of Creation

...their uninspired craft? Well, no. That’s not the way to go. Because skill and method overcomes any amount of inspiration. The trick is to develop a form to bypass the unexpected inspiration with measurable and expected steps which produce a perfect replica of said inspiration.

The best advice is simply “Do the Work.” Just get the thing done at all costs. Whether it ends up a fantastic work of art or gets shelved in shame. The experience is what the creator should seek. That is where the lesson is hidden. Method hides behind obligation and force, not random blessings.

Skill is a knife carved out of wood, inspiration is someone handing over the wooden knife. The difference is when forced to replicate it, bits and piece of the process are understood versus being given a wooden knife and having zero clue where or how it was created. Understanding is...

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Making

Creation, my relationship with it is bittersweet. I’m obsessed and can’t stop, but then I have no time to do anything else. And I’m only really enjoying myself when I can’t figure something out. Otherwise it’s routine and mundane.

Freedom is the feeling I get. Using the tools I’ve learned in life and applying them to the creative process. The aesthetics and the practical are all just as important, and attempting to align them is a learning experience on its own.

I make because I learn from making. I learn to make new things. The prophecy will continue to fulfill itself. My obsession will continue to grow. I will get overwhelmed and that’s when the fun will begin.

 

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Block the Block

I tend to forget writer’s block is a thing unless I’m actively thinking about it. My solution is to write about the writer’s block itself which has altered my perception of it. It’s not thought of as a lack of writing, but rather, another subject worth writing about.

In fact, it’s a challenge to write new content when the topic is writer’s block. To exploit as much of it as possible for my benefit. Let the “negative” be twisted and turned on its head to become a positive experience.

Defeat is a state of mind achieved by only those who have quit. Lessons are a state of mind achieved by those who don’t give up. I choose to learn.

 

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The Old New

The echoes of art bounce off the walls of innovation
Influence is comparable to teaching the method to someone hopeful to improve form
Replication with alteration
The new design inspired by the old blueprints
Tower tops have nifty middle parts stationed on a foundation
Brick stacking with warped familiarity and enhanced complexity
Synonymous with imitation is the act of creation

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Working on Words

I’m busy flipping words. Not sure what you’ve heard, but these syllables are at least inferred. Madness has occurred, yet, with that bird aimed at your herd all I’ve been told is how much to curse. Insane letters swapped with better, hotter ones. Soon to hear what’s not in stores but has got the cure.

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Wet Words

White letters keyed aboard the white canvas, elegant strokes of the ego by delicate hands
The vivid gateway hiding inside the skull must be romanced when explored
Understood fully from outside before opening the door in
Brush ink gentle as bright syllables speak for themselves
A pen that paints the page is the goal

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