september 6th, 2017. my bones ache already from typing - yes I have abandoned the frayed pages of my red moleskin, how sacrilegious of me! - the title, "poet", is foreign on my tongue at this point. for weeks an enveloping sense of trepidation and unease has suffocated me, transformed me into some kind of robot, a simple shell with no power to see the world as I once had with grandiose poems revolving in my psyche. my coping mechanisms have been made extinct. my craft has been left to dissolve in the harsh environment of a mind grown numb.
I pinch myself as if in a dream to differentiate between nightmares and reality because words have abandoned me and I have abandoned the extension of my utter soul.
left in shambles, what have I done?
as I write this abomination, I know that it means nothing. just another hopeless version of myself tenderly pleading my muses to return in the aching abyss. a soft whistling can be heard in the distance and I recognize it as my dopamine hiding from me in the shadows. the words on the screen are swirling, better focus on my subject...ah yes -
I burn at the thought of lifting my limbs and ripping apart my brain for just one semblance of a poem. how will I know I'm okay? how will I study the growth of my existence if I cannot touch my pen without the gaping hole in my chest rumbling as if impending doom was approaching? I'll set myself ablaze if the mania continues but that will only encourage the unhinged self-sabotage, the fire is alive, the flames will prevail and consume me like no other has.
crucify myself instead of waiting for nonexistent lovers, nonexistent fathers, and manipulative mothers to nail my pious limbs to the rotting wood of a cross. I am the serpent that I so feared, I am the monster I hissed at on nights alone in my bedroom. I've simply become a heretic frantically searching for the answers her mind has been boiling for. the rosary I lost when I was five was found in my dreams last night, it was choking me.
I suppose my fate will be climbing up a hill of vanished hope to a meaningless fit of glory where I believe a poem will be my savior - but will a poem ever contain the remnants of my spirit? we will find out once my corpse lays at the foot of st. Matthews cathedral.
finally at my grave, promise me you will offer a single almost-wilted rose to symbolize the way I lived life as an undead entity.
