There is little success in writing, none of any wealth, not without selling
your soul.
It seems that these days our book store shelves are slaves to **** literature,
and our computers are ruled by the pop-up one time self help blog Kings & Queens.
They all seemed to believe that their writing is filled from the truth buried within the heart and soul, and tireless nights slaving over the blank page, but few really torture their souls to bleed onto the page. Few watch as the bottles empty beside the array of snubbed out cigarette ends, all for the perfect tale, all for the best story. But it is never good enough, because to be tortured, you are never to be satisfied. There is no fame with writing, there is no success,
that only comes in death.

I thought I could write, but oh how wrong was I.
My voice is soundless, and my words have scratched the page, written in a leadless pencil.
My pen is quenched of ink, and my soul is an empty crevasse, cold a bleak.
Where is my muse to light  the words that will fill my stories.
Nowhere.

Where does my courage form,
if not from the belly of despair?
Where does my strength bread,
so to turn me into something magnificent.
I am the founder of glory,
the giver of greatness.
I have a stoic heart, washed in the blood of my
enemies,
But I know no love,
and that kills me.
For  man with love only for himself,
is bound to an inexorable death.

I found a friend in a stoic spoon,
silver like the crescent patch of missing darkness
that rules the night.
I haven't many friends  so this one I came
to cherish.
in my absent sense I made a harrowing mistake,
an unforgiving error of human addiction.
Me and my dear spoon lit our path in incandesce,
gliding to the patch of missing darkness, engulfed
in the whirling torrent cast by the torrid flame beside us.
If I could paint, i would show you a place beyond beauty.
If I could sing, I would sing a melody that could move mountains.
however, I cannot. I am just me, and my spoon, searching for the patch of missing darkness.

How have I wound up to be so quenched
of laughter, and beautiful conversations?
Does the silent sadness play a sorrowful tune
in the darkest depth of my despair?
How can a man move forwards
in such a bitter gale.
I fear that all I can do is lay down to die......
In my inexorable death,
torment has its final wicked way.

And then it struck me,
the wintery madness.
The cold ebbed through
the cracks of my frozen
skin, sinking deep into my bones.
I have never felt the cold like this,
albeit it was a cold unspent in misery.
For I knew I was coming home to you.

No sooner does my breath fail
than once our eyes meet.