I wanna crash my fingers on the keyboard and make it bleed. The poor authors and poets of old never knew the bliss of hate typing the fuck out of something. Angry letters to the editor with every period a fist into the desk. The next line ripping the enter key off its place on the right side. Fuck it, I’ve got another. I’ll actually use the number pad for once.
Cracking my neck. Left then right, just like the boxers do. Pound my fists together. Fingers out. Hit the qwerty, let’s go.
What kind of passion draws these emotions out? The burning scorched earth so deep you can smell it for miles. Wild fires look as if you’re walking through Hell’s gate and they’ve left the front door open. The valet will take your car. Bring your bags, you’re staying the night.
But it isn’t hate, is it?
No. Of course not.
Hate can fuel an explosion, but it can’t do what lust can do. Lust can melt steel.
Poets speak of a drive given to us by nature. One we cannot deny. It consumes us all at one time or another. It wets lips that were once dry.
Authors devote their entire existence to describing the beauty of lust. They talk of times they had it through people that never existed. These characters are all just parts of themselves walking through a life that never happened talking about an ache that was so god damn real. Lying with pretty words and spinning truths because we can’t just say it.
I’m not done. I’ll never be done. It will go on and on forever.
The burning will continue. The flames will lick the walls and suck in the air. Water will boil. Possessions will melt.
Don’t let me forget to thank you for lighting the match.