MY SMILE IS A RIFLE

MY SMILE IS A RIFLE

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WpMetadataNoticeLast published Thu, Apr 18, 2019
A long, long time ago (+5 years) I started writing and publishing a John Frusciante Fanfic on tumblr. I really did enjoy writting a story about my favourite musician and how I portait him in my head. Writing has always ment so much to me and helped me cope with my own rather dark and destructive thoughts. Some of you seemed to really like the story I was coming up with and that made me so very happy. Sadly, 2014 ended bad for me and I gave up on everything I once loved so much. I isolated myself completely. Im still on my road of/to recovery but somehow I stumbled over my old frufic again and I rememerd all these good vibes I got from the feedback I got. So yeah, Im picking up this story again and...maybe some of you will still stick with me and that story after all. Take care. You're all beautiful and precious.
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#85
chili
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FINISHED AND COMPLEATED. Just poems, I suppose. Or maybe a scrapbook of scars. A chaotic collage of half-born stories, abandoned plots, and feelings too loud to ignore. This isn't a novel. It's a graveyard of unwritten books- stitched together with ink and impulse. A little trauma here, a little heartbreak there. Addiction. Bad parents. Dangerous love. The usual mess. I never claimed to be a poet, but pain has a way of teaching rhythm. And when the stories in my head refused to become chapters, they became verses instead. My father? A ghost in flesh. A man who cradled needles more tenderly than he ever held me. He is an addict. A lover of oblivion. And I, the daughter left behind in the smoke of his escape. Does that make me a girl with "daddy issues"? Or just a girl still learning how not to bleed from wounds she didn't choose? This book is for the overthinkers, the almost-authors, the ones who feel too much and write too little- until the words finally spill out like blood on the page. Welcome to the ride. There's no exit. But there's poetry in the wreckage. Author's Note I didn't set out to write a book. I set out to survive my own mind. This is what happens when you have too many stories, too many ghosts, and not enough discipline to finish a single novel. So instead, I wrote poems- or something like them. Fragments. Feelings. Flashbacks. A scrapbook of the soul. Some of these pieces are fiction. Some are memory. Some are just what happens when you stare at the ceiling too long and let your thoughts rot into poetry. If you've ever had a thousand ideas and no idea where to start- if you've ever felt too broken to write but too full not to- this is for you. Thanks for riding with me. There's no map. No neat ending. Just the wreckage, and the words we make from it.

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