Could I Be Any More Bleak?

The other day I got the urge to write this down. Sometimes my creative juices just flow out of me unexpectedly (~just writer things~) and I’m not sure where they come from or what they mean. When I finished writing this poem and read it back through, my initial reaction was Damn, this sh*t is dark af.

The inspiration sort of just came to me as I was doodling in a notebook. My pen wasn’t working, and of course this annoyed me since I had already dried up two whole pens in the past few weeks. So I got this line in my head “I can’t keep a pen alive”, and from there it just poured out. Normally I wouldn’t share this with the world but I kind of like the way it turned out (especially since I wrote it so quickly and since its sans edits).

So take a moment and give it a read (and then absorb how dramatic and bleak I am and try not to criticize me for it):

I can’t keep a pen alive
Because my hand can’t help but strangle it until blood pours out of its head
and onto my notebook.
Where it lands in loops and curls of
things inside of me that I didn’t even know were there.
Pain I thought I had dissected,
Memories I thought I had cured,
Worries I thought I had buried.
But they must still survive somewhere
deep down in the crevices of my veins,
because they keep clawing their way out of my fingertips;
infecting my pen as it coughs out words that it doesn’t even understand,
scraping and screeching over rough paper
as it divulges my inner cancers.
And it drips and drips the virus until it bleeds out,
it’s life-force spilled on the page in front of my eyes.
But as I look down at the now deceased form,
I can’t help but toss it away,
and think of the new one I’ll murder the next day.

Yeaaaahhhhh, I’m just as disturbed as you are.

From me for you,


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