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Fiction
Why so down on myself today, a failure at most things in my life but then the ball of fluff has turned fourteen, as the priest exclaimed art thou happy or as Michelle Branch sang, are you happy now, the odds of seeing her boobs? Will, Nope, B’s Daddy
I use my phone for everything but calls, and when it does ring, it’s always bad news and when I have to call… well, I can’t say I’m any different, but there’s still tomorrow isn’t there but if I could call someone? Will Call You Later.
All it takes to motivate me, sleep, sex, or a speech and that also explains why I’m not writing, and at this rate, I’ll never make it to forty but then what’s my age again… does it matter to the man in the mirror? Forty, William To Will, but not yet.
The hero of your story, a motivation of mine mentions that but when’s the last time I wrote anything of value, and though I’m not reading such and such, some words that can’t be forgotten the man I was. “Willing Of The Story”
I have dreamed a dream, and most I can’t remember, but it’s the ones that stick with me that I have to worry about, especially since I wasn’t reading this morning but writing this in my head and how they say, so let it be written… “Your Will Is King”
History is at the mercy of the victor’s whims, but I always like to believe that it’s the wheelhouse survivors, then again Hitler’s book was a best seller, and most of the erotica I read is from white women, but here I am. “To Will Wash History”
The pretend man is at it again, well that was until I was cradling “B III,” fighting an ant caravan or wondering what the hell am I becoming while writing other than a terrible writer… too late, but I am a clown. Your Willie Don’t Mine
If not looking so many enemies in the face, I’m busy creating them or anything for that matter to populate my new fictional word which will probably never see the light of day but who knows. “By One Man’s Will”
I’m not your boss, I’m not your boss, not anymore if ever, in the bedroom I have far more control, but in life, well there’s fear and don’t I talk about it often enough, and being so close to Halloween not that it matters. “Scared, Will You Say”
Don’t make me say it when all I want to do is sleep or any other way I choose to waste time, and then I write about the simplest things because the fiction never leads to the dream or better the reality. Will Say, Won’t Write
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