Stop writing this story and put down the pen
Stop writing this story and put down the pen this half written journal comes to its end
This partially dreamt nightmare ends where it began.
The mind that is worn makes its bed in a hole and lays down with a life locked within itself. The ink of a journey runs dry on a page.
The blood of its life the mind spills in its rage.
It gave up on itself in a search for some peace.
It thought ignorant of ones who constantly mourn the deceased.
Because it knew the chains of their mind had been released.
The small kindness in their soul they will not take to the grave
For one kills to dominate in a battle of old age.
You’ll read of me blinding myself in a desperate attempt,
For they are sick to the sight. Even from afar, yet I hear them and feel them still in my sleep. The depth of the water makes it too hard to breathe, surrounded by water of people I meet. Bitter and angry without air the mind cannot thrive.
I refuse to use people in order to survive.
Now I live my death inside this disgusting den
Stop writing this FUCKING nightmare and put down the pen!
(2004)
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