When was the first time you took a pen and stabbed it,
sliced it, into your mind?
When was the first time you found you could find
almost every last fault
from the vault in your head?
Didn't it feel good, almost ******, almost narcotic, when you spread
your thoughts, in
liquid onto paper
Made something real from pure vapour
And destruction
Staring upwards at construction, the
foundation laid down the first
time you frowned and thought
Maybe I don't like myself?
Maybe I don't know how I tick?
or Maybe I want this moment to simply
stay and stick?
Was that when you first picked up the
brick of a pen and hurled it at the cement of paper.
That first time you felt you had to
vent to someone who couldn't possibly judge you?
Nothing safer than hollow ears listening to the

Seduction of Words

In life, awkward
absurd
But here, beauty is found in
the language of verbs and sounds, and
they take full rein, on paper it almost
helps to feel a bit insane, because the
Pen Society isn't traditionally a celebration of
normality
It's a celebration of more
So you drill yourself down to the core
and let your soul spill out, the most silent
shout in the world curled round every letter
Every evil neuron left to fester is found and
hurled out.

At first you tiptoe round the pain, but, as the addiction
of pure solace overtakes you start use every single vein
of thought you can find
Shooting up by peeling back all the fat and
rind of your mind, letting yourself
snort the unquenchable peace from
sighs of sibilance.

Contentment
No more repentance
Take you stupid cruel conscience, and tape up
shut it's mouth
Take down every photo album from the shelf
of your memory,
Present
Past
Let fleeting moments last
a hundred paragraphs
Let Lover's laughs last a decade.
Destroy every blockade
and allow yourself
Vulnerability
Tranquility
Love
Lust
Life and dust
Wipe away rust on repression
Take sessions of loss and
turn it into seconds of acceptance.
Let the paper love you how
you wish to be loved.

Fit yourself a glove of comfort
For the cold nights of desolation
Reach out from isolation
This all happened that first time

So,

When was the first time you took
A rhyme with
the knife of your pen
and stabbed yourself, again
and again
and realised that wounds don't
have to be physical to be real,
Don't have to bleed to require attention
Don't have to visually scar to prove it's
retention like a tumour.
Sting as much as a rumour.

Lodged.

And I hope that the first time you
hurt yourself
The first time you let
yourself feel
I hope with it came another first time
The first time you felt yourself
and the first time you let yourself
Heal.

because, in here, comes the most beautiful part of fiction feeling real.