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| rdfs:comment | - They say the life of an artist is a life of inspiration, ‘the Poet’ can move mountains and make kings weep. I was an ‘artist‘, I weaved a tale of swords and sorcery and one of life and of loss. It was no masterpiece, but it was mine. It has been six months since I have put ink to paper. I’m frightened, poetry is all I know. If I can’t write, I can’t do anything. So I take the keys to my uncles summer home, it is up in the tundra of Minnesota. I am going to write again. Even if it kills me. The first week passes…
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| abstract | - They say the life of an artist is a life of inspiration, ‘the Poet’ can move mountains and make kings weep. I was an ‘artist‘, I weaved a tale of swords and sorcery and one of life and of loss. It was no masterpiece, but it was mine. It has been six months since I have put ink to paper. I’m frightened, poetry is all I know. If I can’t write, I can’t do anything. So I take the keys to my uncles summer home, it is up in the tundra of Minnesota. I am going to write again. Even if it kills me. I pack up my car with soda and brownies. Then I take a bottle of Gin and stuff it into my coat, my ‘medication‘ and I case of ‘Jack‘ just in case. that plus my computer should be all I need to survive up there for two weeks. The first six day’s passed without me being able to think of more the five words. So, to the next step. I lock myself in the master bedroom! I will deny myself anything of human comfort; even sunlight if need be, speed, soda, and imagination, and booze should be all I need. The first week passes…
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