“Teach yourself by your own mistakes; people learn only by error. The good artist believes that
nobody is good enough to give him advice. He has supreme vanity. No matter how much he
admires the old writer, he wants to beat him.”

– William Faulkner, The Art of Fiction No. 12

1 Fell off writers’ block into a pit of tigers.Bad layout.
2.Strangled by over-loving cat.Verdict: guilty
3.Large bottle of ink bounced back off wall . thus broke skull.Suicide denied by dead man or wife as appropriate [Delete one]
4 Forgot to eat while writing long novel.Was not worth it
5 Forgot to sleep owing to inspiration.Stupid despite possessing genius
6.Killed by malfunction of new laptop.[Can be returned to Amazon  free when body is removed]
7.Tried to meditate and fell out of the window. Accidental death
8 Tried to clean outside of the window with a microfibre cloth.A pane broke and cut his throat.Incidental death
9  Got depressed by lack of air.Jumped and lost balance killing two cats on the patio.Verdict Unfurred
10.Thought he was sleepwalking and walked off roof of extension [only just completed].Insurance will be paid.
11.Fainted in  church and was used as a human sacrifice.Jesus wept
12 Hit head on bannister while falling down the stairs.Euthanasia while dizzy.Resurrection imminent
13.Fought off wife but bitten by the dog .Both dead.Verdict, pointless end.
14 Wrote a best seller, got drunk and died of shock!
15 His blog was declared a threat to humanity.Died of shame.

The lavender I dried lies in between
The   past, its  memories, and the present day
These  pages of the book you wrote and dreamed

I see you writing and the way you leaned.
The cat across your shoulders loving lay.
The lavender I dried was not yet seen

Now empty is the room  that held those scenes
The old cat  died, depriving me of play
Here still  are the pages of  books  dreamed

Is life a lesson, what does living mean?
Are those wounds of  battle or dismay?
The lavender I dried scents the unseen

That was life eternal, so it seemed
But you have gone and none are here today
Except the pages of  these books  we dreamed

When will we reach the harbour, fine and gay?
For God is smiling as we cross  the bay
The lavender I dried lies in between
The pages of the life that we once dreamed.

https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2013/07/how-power-corrupts-the-mind/277638/

 

 

“Though it’s not that the powerful are bad people. “There is a tendency for people to assume power holders are uncaring, they’re cold, they don’t care about the little people,” says Pamela Smith, a power researcher at the University of California San Diego. But that’s not always the case. It depends on who gets the power. “You put someone in an experiment, temporarily, in a high-powered role, and what you find is that people who say they have pro-social values, the more power they have, the more pro-social they are. The people who say they have more self-centered values tend to be more selfish the more power they have.””

To be a writer you must buy a block
Then you need a pen and paper both.
I don’t what my shops have in stock

You have no right to find another dock
So stand in court  and take a solemn oath
To be a writer you must buy a block

Quickly  stir your dinner in a wok
For brains need food when energy falls low
I don’t what omens are in stock

You might need more paper, hire a truck
Fill it up with reams  of  stuff in rows
To be a writer you must buy a block

Once you write a line, you’re  called unstuck
To its fellows you must be the host.
I don’t what  sentences we stock

The sentences must run out  unenforced
And between them we ignite  further words
To be a writer you must buy a block
Just see what  the Bailey’s got ad hoc

 

 

 

 

Remembrance, anniversaries in the mind
The date, the number, year return again
The painful feelings flood up, unresigned

Yet were these rituals once a  good design
To shed the many tears that still remain?
Remembrance, anniversaries of the mind

 

And to the lonely mourners are they kind?
They make the loss of love so very plain
The painful feelings well up, unresigned

Those who cannot see, the wilful blind
And those who withold love cause helpless pain;
Remember in the solitude of  mind

For the lost, our little heart will pine
The wildness of the feelings is untamed
The painful facts are noticed, undermined

Death is  here and tears flow out unfeigned
The symbols of normality disdained
Remembrance, anniversaries hit the mind
The painful feelings rise up and resound

 

 

You revealed the face within your face
Human, lowly, humbler than an ant
The pathos in your eyes made sad my gaze
The other face, defended, has no grace
With it , you appear quite confident.
Yet you revealed to me your hidden face
I know so well the suffering of your days
A fear of tragic pasts feared imminent
The pathos in your eyes made sad my gaze
The mental torment heavy all your days.
Yet you must hide from men intolerant
You revealed the face within your face
Like martyrs, you were tortured and disgraced
You wandered feebly, lost, itinerant
The pathos in your eyes makes sad my days
If God exists then would  he not embrace
The lost, the lonely mad, the poor vagrant?
You revealed the face within your face
The pathos in your eyes makes me ashamed