Recently, the words of another poet seized my thoughts with conviction. They wrote jaded truth regarding the rapidity at which trite digital stanzas are consumed by the masses.
The foolish titilated by the tips of cute letters arranged in basic rhyme without much reason. Serving only platitudes upon a pitiful platter to garner likes devoid of chatter.
The poet wrote with steak knives to cut off the fat from such lazy lines and stabbed a shard of guilt in my compromised standards.
I’m yet a teetering toddler on this social platform pressured to perform, but I’m hardly a novice to writing with blood.
Which isn’t only a metaphor for pain. Rather, it’s the conscious effort to reach down far enough in my own chest that my pen flows red and raw.
To feel my own crimson drumbeat before I can ever match the rhythm of another’s, let alone inspire a change in tempo.
As a writer, I must wield my aorta and attach my veins to humanity’s plight. There is no room for anything less than everything I have to give.
Write to be felt and pondered.
Write with steak knives.
Write with blood.