Why do my words spit out with such misery? Each stanza a tribute to my ever weakened will to live, each line written with the blood and tears of a tortured soul inside this hollow man.
This page an epitaph for my dying spirit, I try my hardest to expose the sorrow that cripples me, that forces me to cry… try to get this virus out of my system before it consumes me.
Why does my poetry disturb the comfortable and comfort the disturbed?
Why is every verse more haunting than the last? Writing with all the passion and desperation of a prisoner, kept in darkness to be tortured and interrogated.
To learn what?
To learn what black rivers of macabre thoughts run through my psyche? To catch a glimpse of my tormentor at last? No one can know the suffering I can't let go of, relief is on a higher plane, and my wings are broken and cauterized.
Why does my writing cause the wholesome and happy to weep at my distress?
Because this is a doorway into the mind of a survivor.
Because this is the only thing that keeps me sane, if I am at all...
Some people write suicide notes, I write poetry.