I Am Not a Writer

I am not a writer; although I do like to write. Really, I am more of a reader. I have always enjoyed reading, and it’s never mattered what. If I’m sitting down to breakfast with nothing more than a box of cereal in front of me, I will read that box in its entirety – the label on the front; the promotional stuff on the back; even the nutritional information and ingredients on the sides of the box. If someone is sitting across the table from me, I’ll read the paper from my side, even if it’s lying flat on the table (yes, I have no problem reading up-side-down). I’ll even rifle through a random technical manual if it is the only thing available. My favorite things to read are good fiction, biographies and science. Oh, and let’s not forget about Mad, the only magazine I read regularly.

Lately, I have found myself reading a lot about writing – techniques and how to come up with ideas for writing. I started taking an interest in that topic for a fairly obvious reason; I have this blog, and this blog is filled with my writings…but…I’m not a writer. When I started this blog, I had a good amount of poetry and prose I had written from years past that, to that point, I’d only let my closest friends and family read. Consequently, it was easy for me to post at least one or two entries every day in the beginning. I wasn’t writing nearly at the rate I was posting, so I knew it was a matter of time before I eventually ran the archives dry and would have to fill this blog with only newly written material. I had a decent backlog, so I wasn’t too worried about it; until recently, when the backlog ran out. For the first time that I can recall, I found myself feeling I needed to write about something, feeling that I should, that it was expected of me. So I started reading blogs about how to write and how to find inspiration. Some of them said you should make it a point to write something, anything, every day. I tried doing that for a little bit, but felt what I came up with most of the time was total crap. I also made an important (to me anyway) observation: by trying to write something every day, I was making writing a chore and consequently, I wasn’t enjoying writing that much anymore. So I stopped trying and started enjoying.

I find a rare kind of pleasure in writing. I like to play with words and phrases. I enjoy working up sometimes subtle rhyming and phrasing schemes, wondering if anybody will even notice they are there. I love using metaphors and ambiguities that can be interpreted a multitude of ways, where the reader could walk away with a very different interpretation than what I was thinking about when I was writing. I like to write concisely so there is no doubt as to the subject matter, but at the same time not have the end result all tied up with a neat little bow, with no questions left to be asked. Life is not like that. The world is not like that. The universe is most definitely not like that. Why should what I write be any different? I am after all, observing life from a very small world that is part of a wildly expansive universe that will always be impossible to fully understand.

No, I am not a writer. Nor do I ever want to be. I am a reader. I am an interpreter. I am a disseminator. But I am most certainly not a writer. While I can’t deny that I hope others will like what I have written, that will never be my driving motivation to write anything. I write for one reason only: self-enjoyment. I write as a form of release; a kind of therapy, and for the fun of it. I’m not going to feel guilty about not writing something every day or even every week. Maybe I will write two or three things in one day. Maybe I won’t write anything for weeks. It doesn’t matter. I will write when I feel like I need or want to and offer no apologies for any lapses that might occur between my posts. There’s a certain freedom with not being a writer. I like that freedom.


Copyright © 2015 Mr. Flying Pig

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Belated Betrayal

You were going to fuck me over any way
So why should I be concerned that I struck first?
That wasn’t my intent at all
Though you probably thought it at the time
I didn’t even know what was going on
Between you and him
I wouldn’t figure that out until much later
When I realized what a fool I had been
Love struck and blind
Thinking I hurt you so badly

I knew what I needed to do was break away
I could tell there was something that wasn’t right
Couldn’t look you in the eye
Feeling like I was committing a crime
Your recovery so completely anon
Should have been a sign
Just a short time after in an incubator
Opened the blinds to the naivety
The dream to find
What was forever lost sadly


Copyright © 2015 Mr. Flying Pig

Sealed in Clay

I’ve been down that road before
There’s a reason for it being the least travelled
It can leave the ones you love devastated
And leave your soul torn to shreds and your heart unraveled

Once before and never again
So sorry to say this is where the story ends
My mind’s made up
The line’s been drawn
I will not bend
Although I’ll always call you my friend

Don’t take my words the wrong way
It doesn’t change at all what I’m feeling inside
I’ll whisper them softly in dark solitude
But in your midst, sealed in clay they will always reside


Copyright © 2015 Mr. Flying Pig

Old Homeless Man in the Alley

Sitting in the wings of the city waiting for an elusive cue
Wondering if it will ever come
Listening to the passers-by as they trudge through their daily do
Making me wish I still had a home

But that was yesterday
And tomorrow seems so far away

There once was a day when you would have thought I had it made
Before the rug was pulled from under
It happened in the blink of an eye like a car crashing through a parade
All that I had soon after plundered

Sheltered in a beat up car
Wondering where my so-called friends are

Struggling now from day to day just hoping for that lucky break
That will put me again on my feet
Youthfulness can do more for less with more profit for the top to make
Dumping old garbage like me on the street

I know not what’s in store
I wonder what’s left worth living for


Copyright © 2015 Mr. Flying Pig