The Buzzing

I hate that buzzing, the bleeding blinding buzzing just behind my eyes.

I hate that buzzing, that buzzing that blurs the world from my view, that buzzing that clings to my mind like morning dew.

I hate that buzzing, the white noise that withers my mind that takes from me all that is kind.

I hate that buzzing, that drives me towards rage, towards all that I hate and wish not to be but that buzzing seems to want to make of me.

I hate that buzzing, that drives my towards the pen, that makes me slash open wrists and paint the page red with words from behind my eyes, from inside my head.

I hate that buzzing, that voice of my muse, her voice as beautiful as that of a carrion crow, she brings me stories of death and dark and things I have no wish to see, these are the things she wants of me.

I hate that buzzing that makes me write, that enslaves me to the page as surely as it both holiest of objects and darkest vice.

That buzzing is gone, my head is now clear, after the words on the paper did appear, but now my head is empty, there is nothing left. No sound, not voice, no muse to make me see.

Oh how lost I am when that blinding, bleeding buzzing does leave me.

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