Writer Problems

I have never created a permanent solution, a world built to last, an asylum from the outside void. Every word burns readily against the white and the paper goes up in flames, a world lost, a song sung, a silence unbroken. I have never created a construct built to last.

            Unchained, now, what do I have to do?

            Write me a world.

            How do I write something I hardly understand? I am no creator. I am a wanderer.

            Build the walls from your blood, your soul, your heart. Fill it with all the pain and confusion you’ve ever felt lost in a crowd of meandering mortals. Fill it with immortality.

            I can’t remember what it’s like.

            You remember.

            Do I want to go back?

            Do you want to go forward?

            My hands feel broken. Requiem, denial, I have forgotten what I’m chasing.

            Walk the cemetery path and look into the still pond.

            All I see is myself and the sky.

            Which way will you fall, if you jump into it.

            To the stars, the black, the void between galaxies.

            Which way.

            Within.

Fuck Punctuation

Break apart the lines of text
And rip open the empty chest

Sing me songs before I fall,
She says,
And let me be the one to end it all

I have lost the will

Righteous light of the setting sun
The sun
Setting my eyes before we go
Into darkness,
She said.

I WILL NEVER BE YOURS

I Dreamt Long

Deep grass to cover me
Deep dirt to smother me
Deep dreams to haunt me
Deepness to taunt me

I see your mausoleum on the hillside, buried myths and moths and dust rot bones. I have wandered here of my own volition and stand with hands in pockets as I peer into the catacombs. No one knows where I have wandered, no one will call when I don't return. I am alone here with just the wind and the voice of the past whipping down my spine. I can't rush this, just give me some time.

Wood to bind me
Cotton to wind me
Time to abuse me
Darkness to use me

One foot in front of the other I am stepping into the gaping maw, hands outstretched to maybe stop my fall. I have never been here before, I will never pass through again, but I hear the voice calling me to the end. I tread on skulls, on ribs, on spines, I pick through tunnels of buried lives. I taste the rotten flesh on the stagnant air and hear the whisper of voices that aren't really there.

Fire to burn me
Whips to turn me
Water to drown me
Haven't you found me?

I am deep beneath the surface of the world and I stand alone on a precipice made of dirt and bone. I can see nothing that she does not show me, know nothing she does not bestow on me, hear nothing, feel nothing, I can no longer run. She is the addiction that will leave me undone. I crawl forward on hands and knees, feeling arms reaching up from beneath.

Grass to cover
Dirt to smother
Bones to break
Life to take

Some hard altar becomes my bed, some skulls sit beside my head, I lay with bated breath awaiting her hand to bring my death. I am here of my own volition and choose to stay out of contrition, or sorrow or fear or remorse or peace, I am here to die and be released. So bring down your hand with brutal force, I no longer run, Mistress, I am yours.

*

I have seen where it grows between
Hard wood and
Evergreen

Follow me away from here

I am the singular
Fleeting image flowing
Silently
Into isolation

We are the forsaken

And you are the exquisite divide