At what point did the world beyond my fingertips stop breathing?
I don’t remember when I committed such a crime as killing. I only remember burning the pages to an ink filled book, crying into the flames.
I ended my lifelong passion and allowed the emptiness to consume me.
Since then it has been so dark.
Words are but a mystery to me, no longer do they bleed from
the flesh.
Instead they hide...

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So gently would the wind caress my writers hand
My only friends are words written on tear soaked pages
They hear my cries, my laughter and all of my untold stories.
In a world that craves attention I melt into the silence
Engulfed by waves of loneliness
Not always do I prefer it this way, but at least I never feel the stab of rejection carving into me. 

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I tried to inspire myself enough to write something witty

It was no use

my brain was bone dry-robbed of any and every idea brave enough to make its way to the page

I wondered if this madness would ever end or if i should continue on the path of barreness

I felt empty and the air refused to fill my lungs

At some point the words will find me or I will die trying to write. 

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It made sense of course

To bleed after you’ve fallen down

But I never fell

I simply basked in the pain and torment that left me rotting beneath the moon

It ate me alive- All that I felt and all that I didn’t

I was drained of all things

Good and bad

Especially love

Entirely hollow from the inside out

And now I believe I must die

On this frozen December ground

With m...

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I remember parts of my childhood and feel ashamed
Or possibly its not the shame that I feel, but a sense of loss, grief, a slight wish I could go back there- just for a moment,  to prove it all in fact was more than just a fever dream.
To fix the broken pieces of myself that I never should have lost in the first place.
But I can't
I must leave the past how it is and feel the tears pour down my...

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How cruel one must be to become well acquainted with suffering and still inflict pain upon

another

Perhaps my heart is so frozen I forgot how to act.

I am cold and distant, full of disdain and heartache.

A lifetime of resentment runs through these veins

Yet it’s me who bares the ache of caring-but careless in many attempts

The salt of life is but a bitter taste of irony

And so...

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