Do my words mean anything?
They lack the beauty of poetry, they lack the consistency of stories. I'm
held at gun point to produce something palatable. I'm a
conglomerate of every writer I want to be. Without them whispering
lines to me I am an usher guiding readers to their seats while they
wait for the play to begin. If they're with me, then I'm the puppet
making the audience laugh.
What's better? Being the actor or audience?
At the end of the day they're both looking
for something in each other. How long will I wait
to be somebody else? How long before someone
reads what's mine? There's no conclusion to this story, it's been told
a million times
it will be told
a million more.
About the Creator
I AM
This is not who I thought I would be. Before my family was captured and forced into slavery, I had aspirations of becoming a wealthy business owner or possibly a scholar and philosopher. Becoming a warrior was the furthest thing from my mind. Unfortunately, our Roman conquerors had other plans.
By Mark Gagnona day ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
At the end of the day, they're both looking for something in each other. just... *snaps*