The ballad of the aspiring writer.Mature

(I write this here, because I do not think it is worthy of a new post, and yet I still wanted to post it. It's cliche, I know)

I want to make you cry,
I want to make you weep with despair,
hopelessness, anger,
Joy, Sadness,
exulted sobs,
or tears of immense distress,
I want to milk the sorrow
from your willing bones,
through the carefully places words,
on leather-bound pages.

I want to make you happy.
I want to make you scream and rejoice,
whoops of delight saturating
page after infected page
of something from my cavernous
I want to make you happy,
with nothing but words on
the paperskin canvas.

I want to make you seethe.
I want you to hate me,
I want you to wish me dead
for the love you feel for a character so strong,
illogical adoration for but a figment
of an overactive imagination
and yet there is nothing
you crave more but to
slaughter the one, who
slaughtered your beloved.
detest me.

I want to make you fall in love.
I want you to feel  connection,
for the sprawling prose,
and characters created under the shadow of
too many late nights
and too many mugs of coffee.
I want to make you love
and desire and yearn for
people you don’t know
can never meet,
but wish you did,
and wish you could.

I want to make you fall in love,
with something not real,
and yet something so alive.

I write,
In the hope that some day,
my writing will mean something to
someone that isn’t me.

I want to make you feel.

The End

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