If A Writer Doesn’t Write Does That Mean They’re Not Writers?

Thrashing around in agony, I am an injured run-over animal; slumped in this gutter dying. Internally bleeding for eternity, defensiveness is my primitive art. Keep your distance, my disease may spread and you may contract my illness, being broken. My heart is still in this race for life and when I drive down whoever was behind the wheel of the metaphorical car, I am wheeling over their heads.

This is the worst day of my life and I am carrying a smile in my palms to upset the dark clouds people have conjured over me with society’s black magic. Hunched at the side of this road the rain hocks at my indecent aura let this paper protect me while I root evil in the puddles of bloody muddy memories. I am simply a death-dealer, now who wants to share this half kilo bag of evil?

I am being held by the angels,

Does that mean I am in danger?

And now I can’t stay with you.

I’m afraid that death is my cure,

Jumped my last stepping stone,

Let myself in through heaven’s door,

Set forth for the light beyond,

Laying here going, going, gone!

Thrown into the darkest of holes,

This is the farthest I’ve ever been from home,

I wonder if my mother even knows.

No matter though,

Under these wheels,

Blood, sweat and bones

I am now part of the roads,

I have lived upon and always known.

You can only see parts of the horrors I have seen, all you can do is visual lies. My darkness moves within me, this is its job as it’s on the nightshift; because as it hits night fall this son will stand. I’m running naked in the rain; the shadowman is coming for me. I can’t sleep, not now, a shield of safety under my bed covers. If I close my eyes now he’ll take over my status in this hell. I will never bend over backwards for this dream, I am spineless that way. These pages are haunting me; they are the only thing besides coffee & sex that keeps me awake at night.

My writing expertise,

Gives me special needs,

The want for more can set me free,

My page is my bedroom walls,

These words can put a spell on me,

Is this blood or red pen on me?

If I ever mislay my mind and lose my place in humanity, I will re-member. One of a kind with two sides of mind, I misplace myself within myself. They say stick to what you know, so I glue myself to pain. My whole life is in complete disarray; do you get it? It’s my Mess-age! I should call my bully, Mud; as everytime I come close to him, he sucks off my shoes.