I take a shuddering breath in an attempt to fill my shaking form.
The words they gnaw and bite, a raging storm.
It dwells inside, a burning hole with in my chest.
I don’t hurt because I’m empty, I realize as I burn and twist and writhe.
I hurt because the words most surge forth, the stories must be told.
That which dwells with in, the thoughts and worlds created by the muse inside my soul.
So much within and only so much room to use, the words are to heavy to carry too many to hold.
They bite and gnaw at my chest, beasts I’m unable to hold at bay.
It rips me apart in a visceral way, the blood and gore there for me to see as my dark imagination holds sway.
I see now I was never really empty, but rather over full, filled to the brim with the words that I carry, the stories that I hold.
Some things simply must be told.