Gloved hands flex in umbra of night
a cot rocks, glittering in the rays of moonlight
baby coos, shaking its rattle
the leathery hands stalk the craddle
finding their prey, the gloves seek the neck
like guillotine, they reap
... they reap
Every idea meets this end
Every dream of mine every prayer
In infancy they glow then glow no more
throttled by shame, they break
chastised by fear, they fade
I would rock them, nestled in coaxing arms, close to my heart
the clock chimes its hour with pride and finality
at midnight, the reaping begins
upon the witching hour, my dreams are snuffed
and nightmares usurp their place.
Is it torment to expect more of myself?
Content to write poetry and leave epic tales of heroes and nemeses to doom and dust?
How many old lovers have I professed my dreams to
how many friends have I bored with my tales
how many family members smiled as I asserted my storytelling chops
only so I could stop, even before the period could halt the last sentence of the novel, thwarting its purpose.
How many heroes clambered upon my doorstep
begging, pleading for me to pen their heroism
How many villains woke me up with their cackling
In the corner, sitting, their eyes glowing in the void of night,
smiling teeth too white
or too black
feathered hats bobbing as their malice peaks
when they hold snaking knives to my throat
and with morbid breath instruct,
"For the love of God..." they say,
"Paint me in a good light, but make my misdeeds known, **** you!"
And I would lay awake, dreaming of these worlds
until the clocks knell
allowing the ebb of time
to wash away my desires, my talents
and the glistening, far-off worlds fade to nothing...
In the end, indeed,
even my mind fades
leaving nothing but a husk behind
and all who knew come to watch
hanging a tombstone upon my rigor mortis neck,
it reads the words,
"He tried, of course he tried
but the devil has his price,
and this poor soul couldn't make rent."
My most cynical take on my problems with writing long stories (some short stories and otherwise, novels): It's also the first time I've written about it poetically, almost therapeutically.
I remember a time when I could sit down and not leave until 5000 words (or midnight, whichever came first) sat on the page.
I remember when there was no concept of a chore, or bore.
But these are just memories...
Who am I now?
Someone unhappy, that's for sure!
I'm trying to do something about it, so I hope I can keep doing what I'm doing (had a list or goals here, but it's wayy too long).