My Strings

I hang from strings above,

their threading woven with clouds raining

overhead.

My wooden body

remains

chiseled by my perceptions:

I am

how I perceive the world around.

 

My face,

a mirror,

cracked down the middle

and across its plane—

forever seamless

not.

 

Behind this mirror

lies a world

apart

from that of this.

A world of chaos burning

like melted glass

circuiting the veins of life.

I can hear the slow, steady

tick of a clock behind this mirror:

each tick,

ever reminding me of my time alone

in the depths of the underworld.

I have no eyes

no mouth,

just a blank visage

in the face of a mirror.

 

The strings

slacken

as I sever myself

farther and farther

from the truth:

knowing and believing,

yet not doing.

 

I lay upon an icy

basement floor.

Limp, embalmed

with darkness that calls to my soul:

an oblivion of fallen nights

that appeal to my heart

for a reason unknown.

My strings,

cut and laying…

A hand sweeps across my face

stealing my last breath,

my last heartbeat,

and my soul’s last whisper.

This mirror fades away

like a sunset fading to grey.

I am only a marionette

too dead to feel.

 

 

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Fountain Pen of Blood

If there is one thing I am certain of, it’s this: the mark of a writer is the undeniable urge to create—and in doing so, the ability to withstand the despondency of the craft. I cannot more fully express the pain and then the joy, the need and then the death. But I do know if I turn my back, if I resist the compelling lust to write, it will be the death of me.