If I stop writing, the bullet is shot.
He holds the gun to my head, and whispers "You better not stop, you fucking thot."
I hurry as fast as I can.
Blood pumping, as if being blown by a fan.
Each word is vast like a river.
The gun cocking gives me a shiver.
I make the sentences flow like a stream.
He yells at me, as I start to lose steam.
I block out his messages.
I write out more passages.
I hand them all to him.
"Your writing, it needs a bit of a trim!"
I look up, the gun disappears.
Im in my editors office, writing about childhood fears.
He looks at me, with a look of amen.
"Make your writing good, or I'll cock the gun again."
The black barrel shows up to face me.
"My next work, will be about a cherry tree!"
