Through The Flames I Write...

Another blank page, staring me in the face.
It smirks, and mocking me, says:
"You have no words. Your thoughts have no place on this page. Why stain my skin with that cliché babble? Why bother in the first place?"

I stare down the empty sheet, doing my best to set fire to it with my gaze.
But the best weapons are not my eyes, but my words.

FIRE
I scrawl it across the page.

FLAMES
I draw across the page.

BURN
I recall a line from somewhere, in another voice, from someone else, in a distant memory.
"It was a pleasure to burn."

I could feel the heat on my face, drawing beads of salty sweat that fell, staining the paper.
Smoke stinging my still-glaring eyes.
"Burn," I murmured, willing it with all my being.
All the energy I possessed sped through my calloused fingertips, through a simple ballpoint pen, and tattooed the page with the words of my desire.
I wondered if my words held the power to burn that paper, as it addressed me distastefully. "Worthless," he hissed. "Shit. Trash. Just garbage. Why try? Why waste the ink?"

But I wouldn't accept that.
I would cast my spell, set this night ablaze with nothing but the force of my words.
There would be a warmth and a light, by my own spirit made.
There would be passion and heat.
I would make them see and feel as I see and feel.
Through these simple words, these unextraordinary letters, I would be God for tonight.
I would start a fire with my writing.