Through my cranial cavity I spear head
this needle of desperation unto the
vacant nasal spaces and without
another thought I hear the meaning
of pain in my solitude where no other
sees i inject the fluid pressing down.

This exhibit of denial that I'm an empty
shell, I'm more, I just need that shove to
ignite that stagnant membrane to existence.
I pull the empty needle out it descends
deceased in its use, as it rolls across the floor.

I can feel it filling the empty *** holes
in a road of thought which was to unstable
to traverse my wordings upon. Now all is
onyx and I have a seizure of unimaginable
reflections that spin in to a vortex of revelation.

The pages that were like suicidal white gowns
of nothingness now express the very essence
I am. But after hours of unknown dialogue
that even I am unsure of its complexity.
I feel a tear descend and its slashes on the page..

Smudging the white with abstract images that
have fallen from my being, I question there meaning
with but sight no words gain ground. That time of
ecstasy seems to be waning and I'm once again
becoming less than before as my heart writes me a message.

This last piece of white is crushed in my palm as
I fall silent to the floor, onyx bleeds from my being
and my eyes are cradled in soundless gazes.
The paper that I had whispered my words upon now
drift around a room of my muteness.
    
Ink dries upon the pages and my being and both
are now silent, my inspiration was exhumed but
now is once again buried within myself. I wrote
a masterpiece of stimulation that will never be
read as all is in a box of stillness and when the
ink fades once again there will only be white.