Poverty
They say the greatest writers die unknown: in poverty, depressed, starving.
They say the greatest writers die unknown: in poverty, depressed, starving. Men and women starve with hunger for attention. I feel their hunger within me. My hunger grows as the piano erupts into anathema. I cannot play with my fingers but with my ears. I starve for the chorus as a writer starves-- shaking. Velleity is cruel. I wish upon daily attributes and they mock me. A writer wishes. A woman wishes. We die unknown, starving. My fingers tap the keys and I wish it were a piano. The music is parnassian. I do not wish to die.
I have never physically starved. Luck, presumably. Who is to say this will not be the cause of my death? Pianists play for $5 a night. My bones were not moulded to play. My mind was not moulded to wander. Ruminate. I am not a pianist. Starvation will consume me in the near future. My thoughts reach anathema along with the keys. Sinister. Rumination consumes me and the rain turns to snow outside my window. Inside of my chest there is a bullet. $5 a night. It is not winter.
Can one wish on a snowflake? If only to wish, no action. Velleity within each droplet of water which freezes on its journey. It must make something in time. A chorus. A novel. A bridge. A chapter. My chest aches. Pianists and writers alike die in poverty. Bullets-- my starvation as it swims within me. Can one be a parnassian in oneself? My mind is poetry, surely. I am no writer. Diction is radioactive. Daily attributes do not mock me for they are unalive. My bones were moulded to sculpt themselves.
Writers do not die unknown. Bullets and starvation befriend them. The piano cannot mock the pianist. Bridges and blizzards befriend him. Perhaps my lungs will constrict and the air will be pulled from within me. I starve to death. Starvation is my salvation. Poetry has saved the man from his thoughts but it cannot save the man from his heart. $5 a night cannot befriend him as the winter has. Velleity is cruel-- anathema. Suffering. As we have learned, suffering is never poetic. Death is never poetic. Diction has poison laced within each character. I do not wish to die.
— Olivia Dodge
About the Creator
Olivia Dodge
22 | Chicago
ig: l1vyzzzz & lntlmate
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