Speaking In Tongues ( A literary song interpretation)

Hey readers! I recently came across Write or Die 2. It’s a writing app where you must type and not stop, or you lose all progress of everything you’ve typed. It’s unmistakably based off timed writing exercises. Sometimes our inner critic gets in the way and it stops us from even picking up the pen. Timed writing exercises have their power in shutting up our inner critic and just letting our inner creative flow.

I just had a go at it, after coming across writer’s block yet again, this time on a piece I’m trying to write- which is a literary interpretation  of  Young Guns’ Speaking In Tongues.

What came out from my go at Write or Die 2 resulted in something very different from what I originally planned for the song-based piece, transforming my original matter from teen fiction to something that looks a bit like sublime horror fantasy fiction. Judge for yourself, tell me what you guys think!

Note: The following is written from a guy’s point of view.


Sex and politics, what a dangerous game we play. Her body around me, velvet soft, tantalizing and teasing. A leg wrapped around my waist, she lifted herself up and snaked her arms around my neck.

Here we go again. Perhaps this is all we had. Gone were the days we’d write back and forth to each other in sweet nothings and perfumed declarations of love. Nowadays we sit in silence, alone together. Static clung to every fiber in the air, dispelling whatever camaederie we used to have. Gone were the smiles, now we speak awkwardly like two teenagers on a first, blind date. Awkward poetry replaced the flowery love words that were the highlight between us. I can’t understand a thing she says now, and by the light in her eyes when I utter my words to her, neither does she. We’re speaking in tongues. That’s all I could say.

She gets up from her chair and goes to the kitchen, picks up a mug of cold, tepid tea. We smile weakly at each other, sunshine no longer permanently etched on our faces, honeymoon glow gone. I don’t wish to wax lyrical but things are what they are.

Sex and politics, that’s all we now know. No new words to say each other, every syllable spent between us, taking turns fighting for the upper hand. She is the Devil and I didn’t know it until now- when it’s too late.
The first time I met her was at the local bar. Moonlight was streaming in, pale like the skin of an anaemic.

Learn from my mistakes my fellow brethren, never dance in moonlight. Under inadequate lighting, even a Devil can look ethereal. My time is running up and I know it. Trapped in a vicious cycle I am, over and over I go around my self-made carousel. I thought she is the one but she turned out to be the nearest thing to caramel fudge. Sweet for the moment, then making you sickly with sad sweetness you learnt was cheap all along when you can no longer get enough of her.

She is the one and I lost her. Perhaps she’s not too gone yet? If there is hope for my redemption, there must be for her’s, too. Where can I take her for a sliver of hope?

She gasps, I exhale. My breath now in her, another piece of me i give away each night under the pale sickly moonlight. God help me now. Where can I go from here?


So that’s it! I thought to just post this for fun, I know this isn’t the best! If you’ve read all the way to here, thanks for reading and I hope you have enjoyed this one!

Have a good day or night wherever in the world you are!


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