Writer’s Brew



The lines of text that fill our world do not create themselves. They must be concocted from a myriad of ingredients. Words picked from the tree of language. Wisdom, past experiences, and emotions being stirred together. Swirling into a miniature whirlpool. I imagine it just like a witch’s brew. My skull is the cauldron in which the sentences and paragraphs stew. A bright neon green hue reflecting its vibrance onto my face while I work. Glowing like a traffic light’s reflection on wet asphalt during a rainy night. My focus draws me in until I begin to stare at the letters dancing. This pot of neurons bubbles and boils demanding to be attended to. For if it lies still for too long it will burn and become a toxic ooze. This is why I feel the need to inject my writing into others. The relieve the pressure that constantly stresses…

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