And I scramble to find a pen as my phone is dead.
And as the pen doesn't write, I boil
And scramble, scramble
Around the apartment..
Shuffle...each pen! Nothing!
I remember how I left my apron in the car!
And I panic,
As if searching for drugs! Anything!
I search through old bags, ANYTHING,
As within me, a hysteria begins to rise up
From someplace I don't know.
The words.
I JUST DON'T WANT
The words to get lost!
The frustration is dry wood to a seething fire of pain in my body.
I thrash! My kidneys! The tears!
The Ache! My head! My neck tight,
And tightening, as in a devise and nerves wrench!
My blades! Tears to pain, Red Hot
-My Wings
-She Cries
-My Wings!
And I throw the wretched fucking pens, no ink! Scrambling for ink,
Like the lighters unleft, when she left,
Though plenty of weed!
And I find myself ravaging the page
With scribbled impressions
Of no black or blue,
Back and forth,
Pressing deep til' the pages tare,
As I think
"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?!"?!?!
And that pen goes flying,
As I grip my insides not to scream,
Before I spot my fucking Tarot Bag, and think..."maybe there!"
Just Maybe there's a pen in that one
As if it's going to save me from this pain pulsing!
GOD, Anything!
And I watch my hands shake, as I pull out it's contents;
Cards fall
And I pull at them
Just to get to the bottom!
And Yes!!! Yes!!
Three! Three fucking pens!
And I'm writing now,
Nothing to subdue the aching:
The pains pulsing that red hot and aches in heart.. Or chest, sharp as I hold back the tears from this ravaging intensity!
Burns, like aches..
Desperation!
The pain has me desperate- Hot flashes making it throb worse, entire body throughout..
Desperate to make it go away 'til I want to crack my skull on something!
No! Not years of emotional pain, (or fucking maybe),
Years of aching bones and trying to cope,
With pills- shove that pain down though it won't work anyway!
Weak spells from pain red,
Nerves cringed, and fried.
My kidneys hurt! Three days..
My back..my neck..my tears..
My eyes, my heart
My spine tight, and pulsing...weak
And no amount of water right now,
Is curing me.
Curing this writhing pulsing in places I'm supposed to feel free,
Back barely bending, agonizing to breathe.
What happened to the branches in me?
Stiff & Dark
Shadowed with creek..
Grasping for writing
As if it's going to save me!
Anything to take their voices away
Anything to take their voices away
Anything
To take their voices away
Trying not to take pain medication today-
Not after 8 months of coffee and no cures, Excedrin, cigarettes & alcohol.
8 months of Her and no me
8 months of trying and getting lost
And still,
THEIR voices in MY head, while I'm writhing and bed-ridden..
..the pain a little less now
As Maniac drowns me with enough
The same pain
To numb it out a bit.
Even.
Even it, out.
Watching my Sunday in movies
And a pain that hasn't gone away
In 3 days
...and this!
This wasn't even what I was going to write!
Those words,
Indeed, lost in the fight.
There are some days, the words
Don't do anything to portray
The worlds of pain
Inside or Out.
Today is definitely that day,
As I ravage instead of paint.
As I scribble instead of try
As I grimace to the pain
And don't so worry at all
About "capturing" it right.
Rather,
To write for the write
And that's all...
As I ravage my pen, from the pain
Desperately agonizing that it hasn't gone away.
3 days.
Ache.
Ache.
My own.
28 years
And most of them don't know..
That the days that come
Without this pain
Come in relief..
Reminding me
I'm doing something
Not
Write.
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