My only company is the questions
resting between my fingers and the keys,
Over-Thought WITH CAPS
Is this too personal?
And the killer, who cares?
After a decade of swagger and strut,
“stories” dressed-up in costume
but barely hidden between the lines,
A tool I use
to be nowhere near the centre of a party.
My page a bolstering buffer
But in non-fiction, I stand stripped.
How do I write this thing?
From tangled minds of fucked-up characters,
My drawings as a child were crying people,
Why do all your stories have to be so sad?
But these are the things we live
so undeniably alone,
cut-off in quiet pockets of our own worlds.
Miles away from contact, a vision inside a dream.
At the bottom I don’t feel sad.
I feel removed.
I’m watching my character act
with no relevance to me.
The sky-light is jammed and covered in dust,
you can’t get the fucker back open.
You can’t remember how it was open before.
You’ve lost the energy to try.
I think of you,
as my fingers hang,
I must write.
I must write about this.
Because I know how you feel.
I want to tell you that I do, the only way I know I can.
I want you to hear me so
I put down words.