No one has written,
Maybe the standard for 'the first submission' is very high and as of yet to be anywhere near met via said works of the citizens of the Witness Guardian. I know not, though that is my only guess.
So what to write...? Certainly nearly anyone who exists has a story to tell that might be found worthy of being broadcast under the witness guardian protection digital media program of this here little website, but what shall this tale stagnantly tell? Possibly it is not derelict, as an ancient nothing but rusted out holds long looted by pirates about to run aground on a shoreline where no tourists, nor natives, have ever dwelt. It shall be an odyssey of a grand undiluted saga of win! Yes, win, for all your basis are belong to us.
How bout a telling of an ever long saga of nearly all starving to not so struggling artists, the woeful long suffering life of perseverance despite... Well, hereafter you shall have it.
Nearly all journeys,
Into the creative side of ones consciousness are uniquely besieged by dark tides. Rife is the realm of sorrow, pain and mourning within us all today. One doesn't have to be a clinical trial 'cough' victim 'cough' subject afar 3rd world field filled with the prospective threat of land-mines to feel the effects of world that our Sandcastle Earth grievously wounded and might soon be compared to the ruins of Mars...
Some artist's adventures are riddled with what we call 'writer's block' which can send your dreams spiralling down the tubes beyond the porcelain throne if you're not diligent to persevere in your medium of creativity. Most do not question said imaginary complexion, 'writer's block,' when its sword of symbolism crosses shields with a deviant in armour, whose sitting upon the not so valiant stead of the artist we merely shake our heads and say 'that's a true shame that.'
Not even for a moment do we begin to propose that said statement is merely an over spoken malignant line that empowers the tumour killing the aspirations of creativity within the artist... No, we accept that such a predicament has arisen, allowing the persistence of the artists to go unchecked and thus the aforementioned device of 'death to creative drive' remains pent up within someone who could be... No, that is not for us to judge, it is only up to us to question, the answer must, or should nearly always, remain inaudible and hidden as to keep secure the dreams of the creativity starved oft under appreciated and always questioned, 'why are you pursuing this in the first place,' artist.
The landscape of 'creatively stagnant due to blockage' exists in many forms from that of the external, being social or antisocial to internal such as lack of perseverance, drive, patience or will. An example is that of one who finishes a first or final draft of a work they deem 'magnificent' or 'a game changer in their creative medium' and thus put aside creativity and dedication to their craft in order to persuade others to produce or sponsor their project. Sadly if the said contract to continue as a paid artist doesn't happen, the dream of creativity often dies with the hope of funds for further works.
There are countless instances of artists being plagued by external avenues of time theft. Whether that be f(r)iend or arch father stressful life nemesis, if your ever-presence to persevere in creativity despite set backs, horrid creations or failures, if it fails and you delay over long, there may come a time when you walk back to the door of your dreams... You might find it locked at the end of a labyrinth with a Minotaur in the middle, a devil inadvertently self created. Thus you begin knocking upon the portal betwixt the threshold. Alas no one responds therein is naught but silence, the pattern of creative beauty is no longer at home in any landscape of your reality; heart, mind and consciousness, synonym for will, soul, spirit or bones!
My Rubbish Harbour
Too far out on the barren oil plagued seas as a black patterned no one after sheep in a dingy with no oar or life preserver the shores of distant lands dreamt of achievement at quest's creative realm's end, no where in sight. No home to walk back to, even if one could walk on holy water or turn it to wine... Or ice for all intensive failure of a miracle wished for prayer purposes to walk across. My dreams began with an accident.
Two of them to be exact. The first was that of my body being damaged beyond diagnosis, for an aching period of pain more than two years long when I was twenty three years oldish. On site, a fork lift came round the bend of pallets and in a fright the driver lurched and I was struck by the tusks of the mammoth beast recently harvested from melting permafrost in the far Eastern Realms of Russia, ivory sold to the evil engineers I was once submissive to.
But greed no longer plays a roll in my life after being struck in the chest and sent falling into said stacks of pallets. All would have been well if I had been taken care of by the insurance company that covered work place injuries, which happened to be sponsored by the government. Sadly my faith and trust in both corporations and politics died when I was abandoned to much sorrow.
No diagnostic unutilized tool did I find myself under until my doctor finally got approval from the insurance board after watching me suffer for six months of constant pain and prescription over-the-top pain killers hadn't even begun to dull the constant sharp twinges and searing agony.
A flat line down bone to howling cat scans and injections of serum conjured up some results. A deeply routed injury and for nearly a year I continued to be overcome with pain and the mental haze of pain killers, sedating any desire or creativity. Finally I simply began stretching and holding yoga poses at home from a book I got second hand at a charity shop or thrift store, something of either the sort.
Out of money and no where to live, having no f(r)iends, due to a lack of desire to socialize from being brought up by bullies on all fronts. Everywhere was a battlefield of verbal sticks and banter stones. The sad existence of a bullied lonely youth and subsequent useless online repressive nerd to geek driven adulthood, eventually, however, the writing began. How and when... I dread to remember the juggler of my hazy memory naught.
Words streamed out as poetically infused prose journal entries. An existence of imaginative empathy trapped in the horrors of painful rage inside. At the hand of chance's fate I ended up across the country working for a massive, once again no trust was placed, corporation and quickly began moving up the ladder, though not so swiftly of pay grade and the writing all but came to a screeching, I was so daft to stop, halt.
Then the second accident happened, I believed a lie. A creature unimaginable floating as butterfly, cocoon wrapped beauty on a the exoskeleton side flipped in a decrepit genesis of hate into a maleficent demon who lay dormant inside, waiting for prey. Sadly everyone that had ever known the butterfly, decomposing before my eyes into a moth, believed she was at very least, normal; a placid little adorkable creature, thus so did I.
What I had to offer, the demon wanted, a comfortable life of easy conscious sedation, I would never raise my finger before my voice in anger at anything in life, pacifist. But my creative rage instilled words that would not be quelled by any offer... Even that of sexual, you'll have to do all the work no matter what position, pleasure.
After all I had barely any inclination to touch the evil one in the first place, being a massive role playing nerd, I found my escape from reality not in the fate of epidermis infused pleasures but in a digital realm entitled World of Warcraft, by Blizzard Entertainment, (clause)All rights reserved to return to said world will be held not in contempt herein after this paragraph ends(clause).
Have all the perils passed? No, certainly every moment is a contagion for another catastrophe unimagined, but with pain and consciousness comes patience and wisdom. In fact the more poetry that spews forth the more that is learned about self and thus the mending of life continues in contentment. Herein is part of a Spoken Word Poem.
Wherever she traversed, Upheld by whose kidding juxtapose idiom voices
They didn't believe in her, just like her derelict space odyssey mother
The vile reality of a hunter
Yet she rose amidst pain
Locking away misery
Spasms of ache
What is this malarkey, stop the swelling vermilion red's kindred tide of anti-sedation upon the shores of consciousness! We are comfortable here, but alas the poem goes on...
She used to spend convulsive intervals of time
Swollen eyes can't escape
Circumstances
Alas for the tragic, not so unique yet too often reprised roll of nightly wish it were her death bed victim(less) crime they described her life as... Something she grew accustomed to, yet never once asked nor challenged the putrid will of a vile creature times two, parents gone missing in a never ending curfew of no one wins but wounds child abuse!
Where schizophrenic dualities of disorderly personality misconduct spoke
Derelict multiple sinking voice over the side ships that didn't even believe in her
Even the scrimmage of personalities within didn't dare perceive value
Just a distant half periodic mirror's loathing reflection stare
Always hateful language chased her out the back door
Vengeful wish she was never born insighted hatred
Of every nights red one righteous handed
Down from a father's mismanagement
Illicit kaleidoscope face paint
Phantom bruises never recorded
Never recorded Phantom shades
Unlimited resource of bruises
Police line up aspirations
Conviction left unproven
Falsified detective work
Polygraph darkness test
Child falsely incriminated
Trapped in an idle rime
Pain endowed shiver
Frozen happiness
Permafrost exposure
Balloons never drifted away
Freedom like hope
Lost
Could it just end now, with less ounces of infringement enamouring our conscience with the sorrow of truth too often hidden behind pictures of victims left blank, no one took the time or care to listen, to ask not what was wrong with them... But what...
Father's betraying fingers
Like daggers to the heart of shame
Nightly mirror polygraph diagnosis
Test she failed twitching in a stigma
Holocaust thin on high accident metabolism
Hands reaching for enlightenment stardust brings
Acceptance despite the horrid word sticks
Painful fists of stone work ran amok
Penetration rampart skin walls
Damaged by derelict waives
Beaten black and red tide
Bruises mingled in blood
Kaleidoscope epidermis
Shore lines of woe
The shame of rust
At least baggage carried now is stable, in toe is only that which helps mend others through whatever, highly ignored, adventures in poetry that come forth in what seems to be 'writer's block' in reverse. Living to write and writing to die empty, in hopes that the journeys craft will endure long enough in a digital shadow to aid others in some meagre more than a mirage, yet hopefully inspiring and validating into realms of conscious acceptance, way.
Writing about what seems to matter; equality,mental illness, victim blaming, prejudice, injustice, love, domestic violence, mother earth, father time and artificial intelligence, a cyborg holding the last human's hand in the end.
For one, other than my vapid self, it might be realizing and confronting a grievous wound or explicit deeply set off conspiring scar which may or may not be a constant burden of a long, but never forgotten, trauma. For others it might be witnessing in their minds the sorrows of others, unable to change the node on the dial or alter the channel to escape the imaginary landscape adventure.
Whether it's being able to identify with others in a new and beautiful, empathetic to non pass the fist around the room, hand shaking the issue at hand from self down the unsolicited line, after being stolen away on a journey through tragedy, loss or mourning into revelations that are or have indeed suffered confrontation with coming to the surface of reality, possibly for the first time... Spoken out loud or written down. Hope is the prescribed outcome, that is my only hope.
Where does your mending begin? On a train home from work after Baring Witness to an audacious conversation between two gossiping behind the back adoring quacks? In a school aftermath class of ignorance effectively prioritizing the classification of the masquerade called life other people give you with verbal sticks and vapid stone thrown at you room after taking in the impact of a lesson spoken by some random workshop poet scheduled in for the day? After some traumatic misery signal that was the sign you prayed or hoped for that would spark you to change... But sadly you didn't until it was too late?
There is no such thing as writer's block, a not so mild proposal, there is just being stuck, possibly... Persevere, endeavour on in your creative medium, create despite the lack of inspiration, you'll never know what you might craft if you believe you're stuck and don't make a move forward in your creative endeavours.
There is no such thing as being tone deaf, when your mother calls you over the phone, you know who it is... You can instantly tell by her tone whether or not she is happy, upset, sad or frustrated. Slowly apply this to your own voice and you too can learn to sing in beautiful tones of melody.
The point is, don't stop being creative before you've really delved into the realm by which your dreamscape is taking you, especially just because someone informed you or some media state of ill propaganda fed to you throughout a masquerade they're attempting to fulfil a lie of disassociated labelling called 'your life' instilled a belief that 'you cannot... because.' Unlearn such non-sense as to disbelieve in yourself because the vapid bullies of our dregs society, whose parents adored them too or cared too little to scold them in any capacity until their pariah nature was all too clear in a prison cemetery brick six feet under cell.
Begin mending before the kaleidoscope grey skin to red blood clot swollen bruises of your own wounds to scar over, cauterized by the flames of sand, the mirror's intoxication with an unpleasurable self denial of acceptance.
We can never be perfect for ourselves or our partners, often times we can barely preserve the best essence of ourselves for others. Though they may help the mending process, only we can find contentment in who we exist as from one derelict space time continuum ship moment unto the next, projecting the snow filled oceanic crystal whoracle ball image from one dreary station of our human condition unto another. Not always in healthy chains does our past hold a noose of shame around our hearts that, carried as we travel towards the next stop in our escapism of conscience, acceptance and compassion.
I leave you with a poem written while witnessing, which seems appropriate given the content herein is written for a guardian proposing that life's witnesses view, digest and reassemble to share a tale with would be clicky pointed back dagger finger viewers.
Baring Witness
Crows gossip beside me, murder stains their beaks, vermilion scales of painted red dance like pawns cursing a game they never meant to play, sinisterly calm in year long trenches of venomous speech, paper wire tapping idle of response unstable personalities bounding ridicule against f(r)iends through parasitic liquid revenge sworn unto death seething from the mouth of hate...
In earnest anticipation of,
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