Why I Write

Shut deep emotions sprung into words
revive this unnourished soul,
hidden in the seams of an unforgiving hell,
driven to the point of mere lunacy,
where my prospects tantalize me,
and my past degradingly follows me
saying: “We aren’t done yet are we?”


What used to be a pyramid of endearment
has weathered down to the ruins
of a fractured innocence,
cruelly twisted by the heartless fists of society,
remorseless,
not leaving the unwanted presence of this dark room,
that I have been continuously, deceptively tortured in
for ages that are eons of my innermost nightmares
brought to life.
Grafitications’s sweet song of lucidity is thousands of ears away,
but I unfortunately only have two.


The clocks in my house tick in intervals
to count the seconds of my insanity
as I – an emotional cripple,
with the jagged spears of malignity
mercilessly planted
into the legs of my troubled mind –try not to continuously count these seconds,
that are smiling,
laughing at me as I glare back at the numbers,
having a deep loathe for the menace
that devours me,
asking for more.


The words, perhaps fragments,
of my imagination and creativity,
swimming like trout in the calming stream of my writing,
are the only things that free me from the sharp claws of dotage
that grip me from behind and pull me down into the uncanny, aphotic abyss:
The abyss of what you can’t fully see,
but fear completely,
undeniably.


Stories and poems are the beaming,
golden bars on the fortified gate of my serene heaven
that I obviously need,
and crave for my survival.
Every counted second -
the seconds that have measured the true extent of my own personal struggles
and have witnessed the oceans of helpless tears
that have anxiously slithered their way down my cheek -
can look up,
and see my smile back at them,
reassuring my freedom from
the clocks that have belittled my every existence.