Soliloquy

My writer is not to impressed with me these days - that's the conclusion I have come to of late. He/she does not keep me up as much; does not wake me like clock work every 3am; it's just stopped doing alot of things. I suspect that motherfucker prefers me miserable - then he/she has more material to leech off my brain. My mind is quieter, a bit more peaceful.

The fuel for the flame of the seemingly non-stop writing has died down, and there are only so many joy joy things it cares to write about. You know what, I'm not complaining - that fucker better have a coke and a smile and cool out. He/she vex, now it's at my pace - I have that fucker by the balls/puss (as the case may be). It feels good being in control - I have not had that in a while, I will relinquish control of my own dictate (for my personal pleasures). It's been a battle to get here - though the war is not over; I have claimed this battle field - and for now there is armistice.


My writer is not my enemy - we're just very opinionated; I love my writer dearly, without that mofo I would not be here today.