I avoid utilizing any real skill.
The person,
the human,
that I am is wasting away.
We can find ourselves inspired in the midst of tragedy.
We take the pain of others,
their mistakes,  
graft them into our own lives to relate.
Am I still whole?
Am I still mine?
In my heart,
at the core of my animal
*** is vital.
I want to write about it,
how it makes me feel.
but it is the me that sits alone in her floor that needs to empassioned.
I sit with all the tools at my fingertips.
Volumes of empty books to fill.
I'm not who I want to be.
Simpler obsessions fill the void that they used to exploit.
Fits of writing about how I cannot write.
Dig
Disect
Nothing replies.
Stare into the void.
Load my pipe again & again.
I don't feel myself.
The one who could pour her heart & mind into pages.
I am just like everyone else.
Boring & monotonous.
I am in a cycle of comfortable survival.
I do not create.
I do not expand.
I do not contribute.
I only consume.
I dug myself out of a hole only to become planted there.
Foreign to this reality.
I don't want to waste away.
Constantly entertained.
I want to find madness.
Lost in the worlds inside my head made real on paper.
The pleasure in staring at the emotions painted on a canvas.
Breed the life force of every morsel I intake.
Burn for the next physical limit to be broken.
Speak languages that make me weak.
God beneath the tree tops.
In love with all the life that came before me,
full of the things I love so dearly.
Where is Satan
while fighting this war of doubt & inaction.
This stagnant misery should be ammunition enough
to break down Heaven's gate
& turn the tide against the luxury I've entombed myself in.
But I must claw,
enraged,
& labor to bring life into this wraith.
Great demons be my muse.
Ancient disease doth stir & demand nourishment
from control & fear.
Abandon my world of weakness to become
of new things.