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.

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My (In)Stability

Writing without wanting, writing without will, I turn out another piece of garbage, another piece for burning-I can’t rhyme, I can’t reason, I don’t know why. Why do I bother? Why even try?

I feel it shouting, screaming, taunting laughing “YOU CAN’T! YOU CAN’T!” as it shouts in glee and tries to hand another razor blade to me. “You’re worthless and weak and won’t amount to much, look how many you’ll help if only you put a little touch, a tiny bit of red across that pale wrist, they’ll hardly notice you’re gone, you’re really not one to miss.”

I hear it shouting and screaming and laughing at me, this doubt that I live with, every damning day, every day it screams and screams, waiting for me to see. Waiting for me to know as it does, my purpose is nothing, I’ll never amount to much, a little bit of red really should be the final touch. It’s not very poetic, it’s not my best work, but really my response is short and simple and something that works.

Fuck off.

My Worst Enemy

I shudder and shake, my skin is no home

My body is no shrine

Unless you count it as defiled, this despairing temple of mine.

Cracking foundations and crumbling walls

Haunted hallways hide nothing at all

My words echo throughout this failing facade

My form does crack as the laughter moves on

No, my skin is no home and my mind is not safe

Not when it’s my words, my own thoughts

That so haunt me when I’m awake

My own voice does mock, my own fist does pain

No, my body is no temple, for it’s been defiled, degraded

And it was my own self that did cause this fate.