The Hidden and the Writer...

How can you write without using the pitch black ink dripping from your soul?
How to wield the own without getting lost in the dark never to be seen again.
Every word put on paper is a piece of you lost, twisted and turned reflecting not you but the truth.
The truth about whom you really are and how little you know.
Every letter revealing parts of your inner being just to leave you with a hole of emptiness echoing the remorse of what you learned were true.
To write with your soul is giving birth to desire. Desire leads to despair which eventually ends up in fear.
Fear that again fills your penn with ink.
To write is to fear. To fear what dwells in you.
Fear of what shamefull desire will show its demonic countenance. A desire to fear in its glory. Fear of despair.
Craving despair in the naive belief that you desire it. Desire agony and pain to punish yourself.
To write is to punish yourself.
To punish that which you hate.
To write is to hate yourself and to desire the agony of punishment that you will never recieve.
Still and silent you await.
Death.
To write is to die. A desire to die and yet untrue. Death is the end of desire and the desire to die is your despair. A never ending loop of chaos.
Desperate tries to grasp reality and find your way home.
To write is to be desperate.
A cry for help. Help that never comes.
To write is to be helpless.
Helplessly stuck in the loop of madness that never ends but goes back from where you came. A state in which you already was lost.
To write is go begin again.

The paper infront of you is thick with ink dripping from the open wound on your penn.
And yet, still not a single word has been written.

Added 14 nov 2019 Poetry

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🗁 Poetry

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