I want nothing
but to write.
To purge my body of
the weakness,
coiling around my stomach
like
Eve's seductive tempter.
To write, before dusk takes over
and I commit
an unoriginal sin.
But the forbidden fruit
smells like bourbon, and
I'm just
so
thirsty.
If I could write–
if I could tell blank paper
of my split soul, hovering
between agony and apathy–
then I could find
what I need.
But words have lost their luster,
stories are just
selfish ***** on pages,
and this pen
is running low on ink.
****
So I will write my last,
a suicide note
for the dying poet in me,
and pour myself
a round to serve the snake.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 1:35 AM UTC
I want nothing
but to write.
To purge my body of
the weakness,
coiling around my stomach
like
Eve's seductive tempter.
To write, before dusk takes over
and I commit
an unoriginal sin.
But the forbidden fruit
smells like bourbon, and
I'm just
so
thirsty.
If I could write–
if I could tell blank paper
of my split soul, hovering
between agony and apathy–
then I could find
what I need.
But words have lost their luster,
stories are just
selfish ***** on pages,
and this pen
is running low on ink.
****
So I will write my last,
a suicide note
for the dying poet in me,
and pour myself
a round to serve the snake.
This isn't goodbye. Only until I have something worthwhile to say. It may even be tomorrow. But probably not. All I know is, I can't write like this. I've been writing crap, or not at all, and it's time to take a break.
"Keep it coming like a miracle."
