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Archive for the tag “day 6”


Urban Lumberjack 02

I don’t know what to write about today.  It’s not like something doesn’t always come to me.  Something always does.  In words, and in life, something always comes to me.  Once, for an entire year, I had writer’s block.  Then poetry came to me.  Once, for thirty years, I had security.  Then clarity came to me.  Once, for three-hundred days, give or take, I had darkness.  And then came the sanity.

Something always comes to me.

A few months ago, on the advice of others, I began to journal.  Besides that it sounds strange when you turn a noun into a verb like that, one thing the act of journaling taught me was that if you have feelings, you have thoughts.  If you have thoughts, you have words.  And if you have words, you have actions.  And actions are the only way feelings become changes. 

I’m a different person than the one who emerged from the three-hundred days of darkness that kicked off during NaBloPoMo 2016.  Most people won’t know how different, if different at all.  You would’ve needed to know me in the before, and I mean really know me, to see.  And almost no one really knows me.  But for those who don’t, maybe the only way is to read what I wrote a year ago November.  I mean, you can… I won’t.  I lived it, and that’s enough for me.  I will say one thing about it, here.  After I wrote it and bottled it all up in a saved file on my computer, I let it out again after the darkness had passed.  I handed it to someone who really knows me. 

And they are turning it into a book.  A book that I’ll read, I hope, along with you.  The book is called, “That Year I Died… and kept on living anyway”.  It’ll be out early next year, because something always comes to me.  Poetry.  Clarity.  Sanity.



© 2017 William S. Friday

Writer’s Block

“So block me, already.”

I would never actually say

“There’s not one thing I can say to make this better, but I want to try, because that’s just me. Always trying to fix things after I’ve broken them.”

I have a broken track record

“Except I don’t even know where to begin. It’s like my soul has writer’s block, and I know that all words are meaningless. Because with you, actions speak.”

you have a track record too

“So I’ll say my broken peace, and leave you to yours.”

that’s all I know to do

“I was wrong, and probably always will be. So don’t reply… please, don’t.”  

I couldn’t read it even if you did

“Just block me.”

just block me


 © Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

The Hot Dogs You Will Eat

hod dog

Oh, the hot dogs you will eat, when you’re grown, and responsible, and should eat less meat.
Saying goodbye to mustard, and ketchup, and such
When you appetites whisper from the bowels of your soul, and you use Brussel Sprouts as a crutch.

Oh, the hot dogs you will eat, when you’re older, and wiser by far.
Leaving behind indiscretions of youth, like chili, and peppers so sweet.
When your innards scream from your phantom gallbladder, and consume high fiber too much.

Oh, the hot dogs you will eat, when you’re dead, and buried for good.
When the shortest line in Heaven, for sure, is the one serving bratwurst and beer.
Where your reflux has become a thing of the past, and the last thing in mind is diet, and fitness, and such.

Oh, the hot dogs you will eat, when you’ve shown that you don’t give a shit.
That you show no remorse, which gives rise in others, deep-seated unnatural fear.
Because crap’s what you write when you’re on a deadline, an excuse you use in the clutch.

© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

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