The Inked Blade

Just as painters live for their art, poets live for theirs. But for a writer it is more so. For a writer, the wriitng will take on not only a life of their own, but a personality; a whole seperate soul. A writer can converse with their pieces, argue with them... feel jelous of them. Sometimes you might tell him his words are beautiful, and you'll see a shadow briefly cross his face before he responds with a 'thank you' and a smile, stretched too tight to be true. Eventually he will become angry at his work. He'll stop writing; he'll tear up old notebooks in the hope he can forget the words seemingly carbed into the inside of his skull. He'll snap all his pens and pencils, so they can never damage someone else's life as they have damamged his. He'll drink, so the letters dance blurrily before his eyes, and phrases drop off to lie forever incomplete in the dirt - so he never has to be the one to write them down.

All this, simply because he knows he can never be as beautiful as the words he writes.