Cease beating the roof.
Cease falling off the leaves, or the tree barks.
Cease kissing the pavement
or the people's skin.
for hope sits on the first row to disappointment.
Now I call You hither come.
And where be You? Refrained from aiding
my belief that does cease. Now become
I one without such. Turn I
away towards the depths of bitter surcease.
Cease my belief! Oh bitter One,
Life has come and been undone!
I went into the blaze to pull someone out, but then i fell in and wandered about.
The smoke filled my lungs, i could not breathe, there was nothing that i would receive.
I gave all i had, there is nothing more.
The flames have destroyed and ingested the door.
I struggled for air and as i went black, a figure appeared and someone came back.
There is something about writing that has me completely addicted, I know some people won’t be able to understand this, but there is just some indescribable pull that I have to put my hands on a keyboard or pen to paper and just completely lose myself in my thoughts and the words that pour from my fingers.
I have written about life, happiness, sadness, loss and most important of all Love. I have lost myself in words that, for lack of a better word, spew out of me at 100 miles per hour and I can only hope that they form coherent sentences when they are out of me. I have realized that one cannot write about something unless having lived through it themselves, I cannot write about loss until I myself have been through it and then have a better understanding of what it truly means to lose something or someone, and only once I have felt this pain or elation can I then put it into words for others to understand, the difference with reading is that if someone is a good enough writer you can understand and feel that pain or elation through their words. It really is a true form of magic.I can read about the beauty of giving birth or the happiness of catching your first big fish and share in that emotion with the writer if they have written it well. I have learnt that when writing, and writing honestly one opens themselves up to deep and dark places that they didn’t even know they had, writing and reading are my most honest forms of escapism.
I feel that although ten million before me have written about love and ten million after me will to, each of those writings will be completely different to the next. I have never read something before that has reminded me of another writing, albeit there are similar characteristics in writing and influences from different writers, but I believe that each writer and reader interprets things so differently that there can never be the same work twice over. I understand that Shakespeare wrote about lost love and Plath has done the same but their own writing about this loss is so different that they could be talking about two totally different topics. I once said that Love is the most commonly written about topic and everything that could be said about love has already been said, I still stick by this statement, but how differently has each person written about love. How different is each persons happiness and sadness, pain and elation. Worlds apart.
I am lucky enough to have been blessed with this gift as are many others and I find myself desperate to write but when my fingers hit these keys I type words that are not ready to form a story and I end up with, the so hideously named, writers block. To which I must personally say there is nothing worse. If I were to try and describe it the easiest and most simple way to explain it would be. There is a stopper on your thoughts, that you can think all these things but the minute you press your pen to a page they stop and you can stare at this page for hours or days and occasionally even months and nothing with come out, and then one day while you’re writing a grocery list you find yourself lost in thoughts and emotions and all these sentiments being projectiled onto this little page, once you’re done it feels like you’ve swum a marathon, all of the tension that was holed up inside you has finally been released and all you want to do is write day after day. You become addicted and indulgent and for days you seclude yourself until you have nothing left to write about, and then you’re back at square one, putting pen to paper and scribbling illegible sentences.
I have never and will never profess to be a great writer and how can I, after reading the works of some of the most talented people. I read Hemingway, and I can read the same book over and over again and every time be lost in the same mentality as the very first day I ever opened a page. I can read Fitzgerald and believe, that I myself, am a character in the great Gatsby and once I have finished, a book or poem or prose I sit with my mouth wide open and cannot even begin to comprehend the wonderful minds of these great, great writers and can only aspire to one day be a third as great.
I continually lose myself in thought when I am around people and can go from moments of total absurd-ism to clear moments of ingenious clarity and lose it all once again in a matter of minutes. I know I am far better at writing then I am at speaking, I tend to believe this is because when I am speaking out loud my words leave my mouth before I am able to catch them and fathom them into correct sentences and tone.
I lose myself in my writing and I feel blessed, that I was given this gift. A gift where I can put down my sentiments and emotions onto paper or screen and have other take from that what they may.
However a warning I must leave you with. Once you have opened up the sespool that is your deepest and darkest thoughts you will never be able to stop. Those demons that are passion and wanderlust or depression and sadness will never cease and you will find yourself with a constant want for more, more of life, more of love, more of travel, more excitement. This little word ‘more’ will drive you insane and the only respite will be feeding it little by little until the day comes when you yourself as a mass of tissue and blood cease to exist.
When you leave, go without a whisper,
as though you were never here.
Do not leave tear stains on my pillow or kiss my eyes and beg them not to cry.
Dissipate, let the thin air replace you. Leave no echo, no trace of your existence,
no backward pity glance at what might have been,
Fuck the drawn out goodbye, the heartfelt speech, the apologies for the inevitable.
It's not you it's me.....It's always me.
Let the truth hang above my broken form, swaying as the ceiling creaks under its bitter weight. I will dance to it's rhythm soon enough.
you are a virus
coursing through my body
i am being infiltrated by your infection
i want to purge you from my system
the way i do with the contents of my stomach
and the blood from my veins
the mere thought of your existence
sends my heart into a deadly frenzy
if i were to be hooked up to a monitor
its pace is that of a stampede of shell shocked horses
who's hooves pound their way into my skull
creating intricate spider webs of cracks throughout
i feel coated in your intoxicating scent
sticky, sickly sweet
invading my cells
i am plagued by you
the thought of you
the smells tastes and touches of you
no matter how long i sit
emptying my feelings into the toilet
and no matter how deep i cut
with the razor sharp edge of your existence
you will still be there
for you have found a way
to tinge me and
to alter my very dna
You don't belong here, do you.
Captioning meat like vanities,
You make noise
the way the tides move sparrows.
It's not all for naught,
Consider the cease.
You're clinging to sheets,
not them to you.