my con-science pounds at door.

“Damnit, author! Come out! You haven’t written anything for months. You’ll get rusty!”

he is rite. my sentences are sloppy with unnecessary, punctuation. semicolons and colons are same in my eyes. and my similes… my similes are like… something.

damn doubt. damn despair. most of all, damn laziness.

i know what i must do;

get back on the saddle. keep at it, old boy. Work off the lingering fat that weighs down my writing fingers with hesitation.

It’s all coming back to me, like a ferris wheel gaining momentum. One seat of the rotating ride contains my humor, one contains my anger, and one contains the part of me who sees the beauty in falling leaves. They’re all talking at once to me, but their words do not overlap; instead they wrap around each other like string to create coherent sentences and ideas.

They’ve been waiting and they have something to say.