POETIC BLOOD

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All writers have their own stories(how, when and why they started writing) well i decided to get creative with mine....

So....I woke up one day, feeling weird, then I realized just overnight..I had grown a huge beard, I was wearing a bright white robe (hmmm a moses look i thought), I was getting the scope. I was starting to love the new look when I tripped over what seemed to be a huge book, I tried to scream but I was mute, so I got up, continued to walk, wondering why I couldn't talk, then I saw this huge door, so huge it could be the gate to heaven, but nonetheless, with my strong masculine foot, I kicked it, and voila! It was levelled.

So, I walked through, trust me I was feeling quite lethal, at least until I saw the massive assembly of people, it was like I was on a huge stage and they were staring, anticipating what I'd say, I tried to talk but I couldn't cause well, I was mute, it was getting awkward so I started to walk backwards, and BAM! I fell, "oh dear" they all echoed and of course, the book was there, so I got up and dragged it to the middle, so it could be visible to the people, I flipped it open and it was blank, and I looked at them thinking "uhm I could use a pen" but all I got back was a stare.

Suddenly! My fingers were glowing blood red, "oouu" they all said, I moved closer to the book and they glowed even redder, I touched it and words started to fly off the paper, from my veins came the ink ooh there was no time to blink, I wrote and wrote and wrote, I did not even have to think, like a poetic mayweather, I punched through the rows and lines of the assembly with punchlines, and like a sniper using words, I shot through their hearts and brains with my poetic bullets, like a surgeon, I opened up their minds, fixed them and stitched them back up so they can truly live better, and like cupid, I shot through their hearts with arrows of words so they can truly love better.

After a while, I was drained of all my blood, but that's what happens when you live like a god, then just when the moment was right, I fell to my death, trust me, it was as heroic as it could get. Then I woke up without a robe and a beard, but I had a book and a pen.

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