A long standing companion of many years lies in critical condition, a steadfast buddy that has seen more sides and depths of my persona and more…
It built this blog from the ground up and holds the oldest of posts in storage
My laptop
Lack of relationships, happiness and anything remotely positive comes and goes but it has stood by me, absorbed my pain, tears (before I lost the ability to cry!) and more
May it hopefully recover
Ink is blood, pen is razor
May the writer bleed his ills
The page absorb his self inflicted sins
A poet weeps letters, and writes thier pain with tears
I can flower a collection of literary confetti and a bountiful wealth of fantastical phraseology to add flavour to the most mundane assembly of letters
Or cut ruthless style to the core with a god darn and ain’t it, whilst friggin hell playing it thirties style gangster to put the boot into any fancy Dan outburst of words
But one thing for sure….
I’ll write verses of hellion fury and cursed blessings of the damned with a hell of a shot that ain’t half on the QT, and god darn if there no sunny sunshine in anything I flow from the treacherous depths of my obsidian clad mind
If I feel like it!
Nightmares cursed to paper; the harbinger a pen full of blades
A scythe sets tomes to stone; the blood of a poet makes its stain
Wordful storms of literary hail that mercilessly rain down without remorse
Sanity accused of logical heresy set to fire
Insanity leeching off the unholy flames
As I bleed my story onto blackened page in varying tones of a banshees scream
So I present for your guilty pleasure
Every ounce of my pain
Not all that a writer puts to page is intended for their readers to understand, but for the part of them that creates the words to put to page for their readers to perceive, truly only for the creators eyes and their ego’s lies
Ink is blood, pen is razor
May the writer bleed his ills
The page absorb his self inflicted sins
I craft from Darkened depths the hidden gems of a mind consumed by Sanity’s death
A soul at ease with the internal conflict of unrest
Read my words with not a tear but the respect that I have yet to sever the cords of life
When without relent I am permanently depressed
A scavenged piece of wood that you could feel was rejoicing at the bitterly spat words ‘seen better days’, such historical depths in every chip, dent, splinter of timelessly fractured lumber that reeked of emotional energy spilt beverages, as an under moisturised hand ran silently over the surface of the desk. Two relationships readily/foolishly entered and a few friendships that hath since been unwittingly driven into life’s gutter, the march of time mercilessly trampling any human based affiliation under depressively trudging foot, but still this archaic structure of wood stood before him as an unflinching comrade in creative arms.
Varnish thinning, mug rings discolouring with countless brown circles across its roughened stretch as the familiar heat from an old (ish) laptop sunk into the otherwise cold material, a memorable stain of something more potent than tea lurking in the far corner. That mark a remnant of a former life, as soured as the corrupted sentiment of a vodka bottle forcibly projected with rage upon the slightly scratched corner, his face overcast with the grimly shadowing sadness of that night.
All that illuminated this particular emergence of darkness, the harsh chime of his watch signalling the midnight hour, was the irradiating glow of the computer screen that eerily framed two fast paced hands ghostly drifting at pace across the keyboard, the rest of the rather unloved looking room faded into irrelevant mist as creative fever obsessively concentrated on the screen.
The strained eyes sunk into pale rings of flesh wilfully neglecting to look elsewhere for fear they might glance a mirror, a picture or risk triggering that ever poisonous thing known to most as a memory, to him they were lecherous hands grasping sinisterly to drag him back to humanity. Tea replaced with clear venom, the time wasting delivery of a glass superseded by the directness of a bottle, another empty container half heartedly discarded for sake of its replacement.
Painful winch as with foreknowing he sensed life creeping up to pull him back into the petri-dish of existence, strained eyes turned inward glare with angry intent as letters smothered the clean white electronic display, words formed in resentful arrangements to cast out demons that had long since dwelled. The knowledge that the time quickened with each taunting tick, tock, eventually pulling him away from the faithful comrade of wooden construction and timeless figure so he would have to face the world, in all its lacking appeal… Why couldn’t he be left to his words, letters and literal works, in which everything made sense.
Ghost of a Shadow 