When the pen goes missing and the world keeps spinning its tales, one writer smashes through the facade, trading polish for raw, unfiltered truth. In a reality where everyone’s a hustler, this piece dares to make you bleed, feel, and wake up.
I sat down to spill my guts, but the pen was gone, probably off having a better life. The pull was there, though, like a siren singing to some poor bastard with a leaky boat. So I smashed my skull into the keyboard, and wouldn’t you know it—a half-decent piece of writing crawled out. Not great, not terrible, but it had teeth. And it was real.
Polished? Maybe a little. But let’s be honest—who’s throwing out the truth these days? Everyone’s busy spinning tales for the suckers, weaving dreams for people too blind to see the strings. I’ve seen the trick; hell, I’ve played it. It’s all a con, but a damn good one.
Don’t feed me that crap about writing needing to be pure, untouched, clean. That’s bullshit. Every piece of writing ought to cut, bruise, make you feel something. If it doesn’t, it’s a waste of time, paper, and whatever’s left of your soul. Wake up. The world’s a scam, and the only thing worth doing is finding a way to make it bleed.
Prompt: A writer grapples with the loss of their creative tool and discovers that raw honesty is sharper than any polished prose. Write a piece exploring the idea of writing as both a weapon and a wound—what happens when words cut deeper than they heal?
