Untitled #2

Darkness descended upon me
Like an ancient mistress
And wrapped me in
An uncomfortable cloak of woeful distress.

I hid from the sun
And lived days of fear,
Knowing that sleep
Was growing ever near.

I took one long, sad look
In a broken mirror.
The gloomy vision of a dismal void
Did cause me to shiver.

With heavy limbs and weary heart,
I write these words;
As a penultimate act,
They're my last to be heard.

I have been living
In the dark for so long
That I am afraid
Of the light or a song.

My thoughts are those
Of dying gods and dying men,
My dying hope,
And my dying pen.

Drapes of loneliness
Darken my room.
I lie beneath
A blanket of doom.

I suffer alone
In my misery,
And cold, black melancholy
Envelops me.

Others love.
But me?
I alone sit
And try to write poetry.

And sometimes I despair
Over what I've said and what I've done,
But from these things
I cannot, will not run.

My brain lies in pieces
On the dusty floor.
The nightmare that I live
I just can take no more.

I can't combat my mourning,
And my tears are cast in vain.
My face, twisted and contorted.
My mind has gone insane.

I embrace nothing but my death,
And I'm wounded by my thoughts.
My pen has run dry
From the complex ideas I've sought.

My life I'd trade
For a rusty blade.
But I?
Instead I alone sit listening to the dustmites screaming
And to the dull, hollow clacking
Of my own black heart.

---

Originally written:    December 9, 2000
Put online:    March 18, 2001
Discussion:    This poem deals with, in some way, my writing process. It touches upon the writer's block that I occasionally experience and the insanity of creativity that I occasionally feel (sometimes very deeply). It should be noted that writer's block is a very aggravating condition. This poem also holds one of my greatest fears--that I will no longer be able to write, either through lack of creativity, or something else. Furthermore, the last stanza is important. Without the ability to write and let out the insanity that grows inside my head, I would probably kill myself, but I don't because of my creativity. If I ever stop writing, then I could have problems (as I've said before, without writing, I'd either be dead or completely insane).


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