I demand Edgar Allan Poe to cut open my brain. My thoughts would pour out unto the room. Like rising water to the tip of my lips. Leaving me stuck in between that moment. Where I'm given the choice to drown or be left gasping for air. As his Raven claws at my stomach trying to free himself. From the mimicking & mockery of my fiction. As my crow elegantly, resting at the end of my fingers tips calls out my name. My arm left outstretched reaching for a sky. In a world I could never find rest in. Engulfing me in ravaging, epiphanic darkness. For I have grown wings stitched from everything I have loved and left. Whom now lays dead and made in form of feathers. Dipped in brooding black ink. As I leave this world of pain & comfort.