Why did you stop writing?
I have inquired this so many times,
But all you do is shrug as the tears well up in your eyes,
All you do is shake your head as little diamonds fall,
But, dear heart, I know why.
You stopped writing because you have managed to effectively **** it,
And by it, I mean that demon inside of your head that gnawed at your soul
Until you were a shell of a human being,
That demon that would not let you go despite your agony,
The one that you battled for ages.
But why did you stop bleeding onto paper?
You stopped dotting your i’s with tears
And curling your g’s and y’s with smiles,
Each crossed t was your anger,
And each semicolon symbolized a struggle that you’ve overcome.
Oh how I miss your soul
Because the demon that you fought off,
It came back and stole your words from you,
You smile more and write less,
You laugh now but write no more.
Was your creativity in your sadness?
The misery that consumed you drove you mad,
But the consequence was beautiful,
And I’m happy that you’re better,
But I mourn the loss of the artist that painted images in my mind from words on paper.
Where are you?
This is not a selfish plea,
But this is a call of desperation
Because I thirst for the words that flow from your veins,
The stories that gush from your mind.
Can only the raven be your muse?
The dove coos up above but it does not tickle your fancy like the darkness did,
You preferred black to white, scarlet to yellow,
And by God, you were the best of us,
But my Lord, you were the worst.
Why do I mourn you?
You were beautiful but damaged,
And each word, line, stanza was deep and dark and heavy,
And through the words on paper, I could sense the poison in your veins,
And I felt more of your soul there than in all the years that I’ve known you.
But what happened?
I saw the correlation between the madness and the artistry,
You spilled your emotions onto the paper and it was lovely,
And then you got better, and it was beautiful,
But in doing so, maestro, you seemed to have lost sight of the song of your life.
       But what of the dove, of the light?
I miss the art but I care for the being,
But no song is worth your pain,
And nothing beautiful is worth your depravity,
So when I ask for you to write again, my friend, I ask not for the darkness, but for the light.