Woeful Muse

Failure echoes inside me and I have not words to speak.

My blood runs dry, I’ve come to the end of my ink. No words do flow, my muse refuses to speak.

She’s the cut the strings that bound me, and I’ve found I don’t like to be free. Muse of mine where did you go, that anguished my writing and worried at my woes.

That echoed thoughts of blood and horror deep within my soul, you’ve let me free, and I find I dislike being alone. How can I find you oh muse of mine, where did you go?

I find myself hating it all, for nothing comes out right. There is my pain buried below, but I lack your cutting knife. I can’t draw the blood to my pen, I can’t get my ink to flow. The words are all wrong and this I know for sure.

There is a false feeling to what I write, a lack of woe, of suffering or strife. I have no strings to guide my hands, no one to hold that knife. To cut into those scars of mine and deep this pen in ink. My pain is hollow and my worries are weak.

Oh muse of mine, I need that knife of yours, for my pen is out of ink. I can’t find my nightmares, though I can still hear the screams. Sear my brain, burn my soul.

Bring back that woeful muse I know.

Advertisements

Blackened Mirror

I look upon a shattered mirror, burned and blackened home. I see a weeping form, a cold and woeful soul.

I reach out to touch them, to lend a helping hand, but jagged edges tear my flesh, and turn me back again.

I look upon my weeping form, in that blackened mirror, I have tried so long to help myself, that I forgot what it was I fear.

I hold my tattered hand, against my heaving chest as I feel the tears form once more and see myself again. Reaching through that blackened to start the cycle anew, as every time I try to help myself I just rend myself in two.

Cracking Creaking No More

Cracking creaking and suffering more, I see no reason, no reason at all as to why I hurt ever more.

The cracking and creaking and ever leaking form suffers and suffers ever more, though the pain shows not on my fading form.

It’s locked inside with these screams of mine as this cracking and creaking mind of mine breaks and shatters more and more, like a hammer to glass my soul falls apart and I hear it cracking and creaking and shattering more.

I wrap my arms around my self, to hold myself together, and simply scream in silent pleas “No more, no more.”

To Stoke a Fading Fire

With in my heart I feel a twinge, a sharp breaking, a strange unmaking as I cease to be again. A strange fading, this odd unmaking, as that cold settle in. It travels my bones, though I know they’re not old, and it stifles that fire of mine.

My furnace runs dark, the forge now unlit, if only, if only I had a steady hand and a  friendly face, someone to hold the flame and tend that fire while I travel through, too often mind you, that cold and dark place.

Still I strike the flint alone, I shovel the coals and sweat alone as I travel through that dark place and mind my fire alone; to keep it lit and keep me warm and as a reminder that even in that dark place, that empty cavern of mine, even there the sun does rise and light does still exist.

If only I could find my way through it’s labyrinthine depths to a place in open air to see the sun light anew, if only I had a friend with a steady hand to hold my own, perhaps then this darkened place wouldn’t be such a task to make it through.

Still I toil away, with this guttering fire and this dying flame, if only for a hope, that tiny dream of mine, to leave this maze, this endless cave that holds nothing but screams and sorrow to see that glorious day, to see the dawn breaking and remember anew, I’m still alive and I’ve yet more to do.

Final Friend (Warning: Deals With Suicide)

I see the shadows on the wall, to think I almost had it all. I found my path, set the date to see success and keep my friends, to have a family, a life with gifts to give.

To think I let it go, for that darkness I saw behind, for the shadow my pride set upon my path. The darkness that blotted the light, hidden by arrogance.

I never met my success, I lost my friends to lies, my family broken apart while on this shattered ground I lie, my only date, my only fate the rope within my grip.

This twisted root which sees not my arrogance, never mind my pride, my sins it can hold, my grief it can bare while it robs me of breathe and blessed air.

My final partner, my last friend, this noose here within my hand, it judges not though I judge myself and see my hubris and my greed, and so, without anger and without rue, it’s myself I now set to hang.

I’ve burnt my bridges, wasted my skill, there is nothing left to life for me, but one last dance, without a partner I go, to defy the gravity that brought me so low.

Nothing that rises can stay within the air, all must fall, never fated to simply hang there.

As it stands my fall has happened, my life is done, so to those that remember, to those that might care.

I bid you adieu, and I’m sorry I failed.

I’m sorry the writing I was so fond of was the first stick upon my pyre, the spark that started the fire.

I apologize, for what it’s worth, to say goodbye in such a way is not what you deserve but I see nothing else left for me but this meeting with a rope a final dance upon air in sudden silence with nothing there, nothing but me.

Alone.

With not but my sins, my thoughts, and this rope for company.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Author’s Note~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I won’t say much here but I will say that I’m as fine as can be expected. This is a poem brought about due to late listening, ennui, and well, depression. However, a poem written is not a noose made.

As it stands however I will add that suicide for anyone contemplating it seriously, isn’t the path to go. I can quite honestly say that sticking around and finding a way out of the situation that leaves you so depressed is far preferable to simply ending it. If you don’t see a way out on your talk to someone, sometimes being to close to a thing means you miss the forest for the tree, you’re only seeing one path because you feel there is no other path.

Remember also there is the suicide prevention hotline, that’s not just something to call when you’re almost there and having second thoughts, if you’re having ANY serious thoughts, call and talk to them. They’re volunteers, it means they’re there because they DO care, and they can’t tell anyone what you say. I’ll admit, I’ve called a few times in the past, and it helped immensely just to talk to someone, to air my problems to someone who I didn’t have to worry about judging me.

Also remember, above all else, you’re not alone. It’s easy to assume that your problems are the worst things in the world because we see everything through the only view point we know, ours.

Other people can sympathize and help and are often quite more willing to do then one might expect when in this kind of situation. (I know it’s hard to believe other people care at times, I get there myself, but they do. Rare is the person who’s truly alone. And if you are truly alone, feel free to send me a message)

Also, just because it’s the internet and I don’t want anyone thinking otherwise, I am NOT a medical professional. Any advice I give is the advice of someone who cares and has experienced this, not the advice of a medical professional. If you feel you have depression, please, please see someone or talk about it with someone. (There that’s covered) Link for the site for the hotline down below, along with their number.

https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/ – 1-800-273-8255

 

Broken Art/Burning Stars

The pain keeps me grounded, the agony keeps me sane. It stops these wicked thoughts from forming as it kills me all the same.

The aches keep me whole even as I fall apart, the scars hold me together as a broken work of art.

These tatters are my riches, the ragged holes my gold, they leak the inspiration for the words that seem to flow.

When the darkness grows to large and their whispers to great I wrap my tatters close and clutch to this aching scars to let them lead me onward like the burning of the stars.