Haunted

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Dry ink hangs over the page dangling frozen at the tip of a pen. The paper yellows with age. Blank with doubt and uninspired hopelessness. Waiting. Just waiting for the idle hand to sway with originality and scribble with aimless joy, but it all remains static and still.

Although, the air feels desperate the clock is patient as its afternoon smile shifts to a late night frown.

Floorboards creak and thump at pacing boots like a secret killer quietly stalking prey in a cabin. This cabin is nowhere near as eventful.

Endlessly searching for direction, the haunting apparition hovers over the imaginary world with tragic sorrow filled eyes. Hollow and tearfully fixed on the emptiness.

Bloodless pale, regretful and depressive, hatred consume the spirit and ignites strong sentiment. Like an ever growing void of inescapable speed and magnitude. The fear of being incomplete and fragmented crippled and killed the host, but nature demands invention..

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God Is Lost

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Although I’ve never dealt with writers block, I do occasionally feel uninterested in what I create or creating in general. Creators depression if you will. When each word to land on the page feels empty and foreign. As if it fails to convey the intended message or emotion. Like trying to read a page through fog. Clarity is missing.

It’s times like these where thoughts feel hazy. When it’s least obvious what’s missing from the work is when it’s the most frustrating. The satisfaction of finding a hundred problems each sentence comes with the knowledge that you can jump in and fix it all. This is more like trying to…

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Hiding Time

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Self-reflective, Jack discusses his fears and motivations for being creative. Leaving a mark.

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I wear a mask to go hard
And I take the lie pretty far
Fake like I’m born with these scars
I don’t bruise, I’m from mars
Way high up in the stars
With red eyes locked like darts
Just ’cause I’m smarter when I gab
That’s why I overstand to rap and spit
Can barely stand hands frosty grip
Around my throat
The grip won’t slip
Hope I don’t choke
I’m rolling throwing blame at frozen shame
Stone cells, prison brain
Shattered the glass house
The crash was mad loud
I’m assed out
No second chance will pass down
Claim sober to be left alone
It’s over
Getting closer for…

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Planning for Later

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After finishing his 365 Project Jack is eager to see what comes next for him.

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Been restless for days. Fastened safe behind the door of the bunker. Clicking and ticking the word keys. Idea stacking. Format building. Adding shape and structure. Fleshing out the details of the future for the future. Doing it all drained from the won race.

Constructing new tools to face unmet targets. Swords for battle and sticks for stability.

Victory battles don’t predict ended wars. Ended wars still have the aftermath. Recovery is gradual behind the worn inkless pen. Winners decide the history.

A war of infinite battles has no finish. Each finale is but a stepping stone to the next risk.
It was all just chapter 1.

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The Designer

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The mind of a creator is a place where magic and tragedies are one and the same.
Whatever happens happens when they take their work seriously.
And the one’s that don’t get left behind.

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Much on the plate to eat. This and that. The want to eat it all while faced with the impossibility. Could take a bite of each thing just to get a taste, but not one thing would get finished.

Building glass towers…

Running out. The bomb is ticking and there is not time to sit and think of how to stop it. It’s time to act and make a move. To feel like something was attempted. So that if the bomb goes off it feels like at least the best was tried tried. In case one thing doesn’t defuse the it, it should all be considered. Lives are at risk and being helpless is not an option.

Sculpting away at the block…

This doesn’t belong here. Being capable of correcting this error makes it a duty. The weight of when it’s right or wrong to make a move is overwhelming. What if it’s the wrong call? What if the decisions have the capacity to…

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Self-Taught

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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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Spit Wit Like a Trickflip

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In this piece Jack is talking smack as thought this blog were a rap.

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The mind of a maker
Keeping up a grind ‘till I take it
Trickflip the shit quick with the sick wit
Acrobatic causing havoc when I’m at it ‘cause I’ve had it
Hot when I rock steaming glass shatters not
I’m a dick all outta shits
Won’t pull out
Clean staying mean, butt won’t cool down
Been around tried a couple of different sounds
Hearing the bitch screaming “don’t stop now”
That’s the voice in the background
Extra, Extra, Extra, going mad now
And I won’t back down
And I won’t stand down
And I won’t blackout
And I won’t quite shout
I slither when I whispers sneaking
Measure with whiskers fiending
Cat and mouse
You stumbled into the wrong house
No way out now
The claws behind these paws will cause a loss
Time and cost developed the sight which caught the tiny critters behind my bars
Inside my mirror I…

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Breaking Up

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Heartbreak is a natural part of the adult progression. Whether it's in love or generally in life, you'll experience humbling moments. Many of these moments will be easy to get over, but others, like a breakup, can last for the rest of your days.Here is a piece about having to let go of love. About heartbreak. About getting to know yourself.

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I go through certain periods of psychosis in which the voices make my choices.

I write.

I write.

I write in circles. I blind myself to reality and formulate strange incoherent, inconsistent, persistent, and dissonant insistent… thoughts.

I thought.

I thought I was something I’m not. I rot inside because my façade is all I’ve got.

I’m arrogant…

I’m bought.

I’ve got no image. Through my imagined magic I manage majesty. Anxiously, I go on. Apathy naturally pushes me gracelessly to move forward sluggishly.

I own nothing. A walking lie.

I try and try, but there isn’t a real me. There isn’t someone there to see. So I write.

I write.

I write. Understand, I don’t know why. I don’t understand. All I know is to try.

I’ve become…

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