“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
~ Ernest Hemingway
She no longer wonders why she does it
Draining her self so completely
Succumbing willingly to the void of emptiness
Escaping the torturous black abyss
Crimson tide spilling forth
Proof of life and a wounded soul
Transfixed by the illusion
Magically transformed into words
The need of pure numbness
The escape of maddening pain
The never ending flow of memory
The need to feel whole again
A personality disorder quite perhaps
Not to worry we have a pill for that
A balancing of cerebral chemicals
To hush the nonsensical bothersome voices
Fuck your pills and diagnosis
Give me my fountain pen and textured paper
Leave me alone to suffer in solitude
Casting out my demons to spew to the universe
©2011 Jill Terry
Wordsmith Extraordinaire 
Let me begin by saying that I can’t stomach Hemingway. At all.
Having said that, I must say I’m surprised at the poignancy of the quote. Quite surprised.
What I’m NOT surprised about is the brilliance of this piece. I’ve found that I simply expect it from you. Your words always cut to the bone with surgical precision, providing the much needed bloodletting we all require… whether we realize it or not.
Poignant, beautiful, brilliant, excrutiating, cathartic, enlightening, inspired, inspiring.
What I find that I AM surprised about is the maddening lack of response to your work. Perhaps the readership is not on par with the creator. Perhaps the subject matter is too visceral. Perhaps you need a worthy audience. This one certainly isn’t it.
As always, my hat is off to you, lady.
I remain a true fan… always.
No matter the carnage, or well written verse; people love to watch a train wreck, some can’t even make themselves look away. They just don’t want to admit it. My stats are proof positive…
Thank you for your encouraging words and fanship…