By extension by featheredsleep

For half wits who think they can just fart their fantasies on a page and label themselves a writer. I’m fucking thirty eight, been writing since I was eleven years of age and will only consider myself a writer when I’ve written a handful of books that sell a few hundred thousand copies at least. Until then, I’m just a prattler with a pen.
Don’t be a wanker with a pen,  learn something, or better yet read something and indirectly learn how to meter words, sentences, cut out fodder, and write something other than a porn mags regurgitation.

The piece is by a talented lady who’s alias is ‘featheredsleep’ on WordPress. If you like the written word, she’s got tonnes of it. Check her out if you have some time.

By extension – http://wp.me/p5J4qO-Kq

Who sees you?

i write2
I write in darkness,
So you may see me in light.

Alas, no one sees me in plainness of day,
But at night, in full site.
-W.E.

 

She got it fairly right, sort of, not really.

“…. you show everything in your work,
…..but nothing in real life”

I agree, somewhat. I’ve tried, many a time,
but people don’t see me in real life.

They read me though, yes, they read me.
My hand, they see my hand.

“…there’s different ways of seeing”, she said.

Ah yes, and none of those ways work for me

So I’ll stick to writing in darkness.

I’ve purposely hidden in the shadows, never divulging my lust for the written word in person to people I grew up with, yet here I am in a world of strangers, and you have pieces of me that the closest people around me don’t have.

People don’t know what to do when you give them something heavy to hold.
That’s why I choose not to offload it to them, makes life so much easier.

I don’t want anyone in my vicinity to ever look at me in disdain. It happened once and I was mortified at how someone can use a vulnerability against me with such raw spite.
Never again.

-W.E.

Liar Liar Soul on fire.

soul for sale

 

I won’t lie

I’m like everyone else

My soul is for sale

The highest bidder hasn’t even reached half the reserve
-W.E.

 

Who are we kidding? The right person with the right words, with the right mind, with the right touch for all the wrong reasons and you could be sold for a few pennies.

Let’s be brutally honest and stop regurgitating this cliché. We all have that spot, somewhere or something inside of us that if it is found puts down all our defences.

I have experienced it with the most hostile of souls and the most gentle. Everyone has something about them.

The problem is, the navigators of the human soul have become few and far between.

I’m a rebel without a cause in most of my pursuits.

Authority? I stick a big proverbial in their face.
Law? What law?
Sensitivities of humans? Push me and I’ll tear you down in a heartbeat.
You want to get physical? I’ll hit you seven ways before your anger has fettered to your fists as I’m on my toes all the time.

It’s hard to tell my stubborn ego what to do.
But one look from my teachers and I melt.
They bought me and have me shackled, key thrown away rusted chains to my ankles, anchor me to humility in their presence.

They know how to spear my heart from all vain desires with a line of prose or an anecdote of a master sage.

What did they pay for my capture?

A smile.

I love you teachers.

May God sanctify your secrets.

In loving memory of her, who gave me the lantern niche illumed with oils and lit the flame for me to see the way to him.

Him, who carries the torch with love and forbearance, with patience to my folly until the day where my ego can finally be slain a mighty death on the alter of the masters before me.

Nightwriter-2

a-vision-in-the-night-4

She wore thick framed glasses and her colour was conviction,

Assured of herself, black, poised, my affliction,

She taps me gently on my fingertips wakes me for inscription,

She knows me well, feeds my addiction.

Wears her prose in balanced meter, long pauses of silence,

At times white noise, piercing violence,

Enamoured with adornments of the highest order, black diamonds,

She knows how to wake me and be my guidance.

Only a lover would know her and how she allures,

She’s divorce material, an obsession with no cure,

She’s the last person my wife would ever conjure,

Her name is The Night, black majestic grandeur.

-W.E.

Conversations

tumblr_inline_nduk5lUqCi1syb4jt

What if we had those conversations

even if only in our imaginations

dissertations

between each other that might unite our nations?

Palpations

of societies trivialisations

touching probing, questioning,  discussing agreeing, disagreeing but opening up the discoursation

an invitation

to awakening from hibernation

to unhinge our inclinations

to egotism and trepidation

to one another

to humanisation

of the other.

We talk over, through and past one another, it’s time to talk TO each other.

-W.E.

She’s damaged goods.

article-2399835-1B6C3562000005DC-696_964x685

 

She’s the ship wreck on the shore that everyone loved to look at, dwell in her confines, and listen to her stories even though she didn’t say a word. They all thought she made the shoreline ugly, rust, decayed wood and wails of the wind that bore her sorrows but no one dared remove her.

She was a reminder of how fortunate they were and also how boring they were. They couldn’t bear to be the spectacle of ogle like she could. She took it with a throw of her white sail, and a flicker of mascara, sly smiling bow but her plank was there, solid and anticipating her next traitor.

What presents itself as damaged goods is often the most passionate and generous. They may not offer material, but they can sail you on a sea of impossible storms, loves crashing waves, the oceans darkest bottoms and wash up after the storm, another piece wrecked off them, but still mesmerising.

The problem is with cowards who don’t want to salt their faces and tan their hearts.

-W.E.