Take the pen.
Spill the ink.
Write your heart out.
Claim me to rid my mind of misery,
although do not weep when my inner grief
grants you no extra power like the ones before me.
I’m warning you now, dear Beast,
all you can gain from this consumption is weight -
I have no power left in storage - but I beg for this.
On my hands and knees; I beg for you
to quieten my screaming weakness.
I am most easy to find,
but forever difficult to discover.
the space between us melts away,
honey forming in the warmth of passion.
we are golden and sticky in love;
I am made weak by the sweetness of it.
I do not yearn for love.
Not romance, nor friendship.
I struggle in this passive isolation
yet I do not seem to yearn.
I am empty in that context.
Never feeling full, nor have I ever before.
I claw and cut and scream for simple peace
yet I seem to be punished with restlessness.
Maybe the peace is found within
regaining a sense of yearning.
Maybe the peace is only found within
the final ‘death’ do us part.
they are all asleep
and I sneak under cover
of the lateness of the hour
to the comfort of my words
scrawled across a page in ink
from the nib of a fountain pen
they search for a target
I'll never achieve
on a journey through my head
reaching for perfection
I am tired by a world
always demanding more
than I'm prepared to give
always asking for more
than I could possibly have
but this moment is at least mine
stolen from the clock of life