As my eyes close, I hear them talk,
Speaking to themselves as though I’m not even here.
The silence is disturbing, the dark is intrusive,
But the voice in my head rings louder than pain.
I lay in silence as my head dares to rest,
Without a purpose to wake again.
The voices are damning, although they’re not real,
So perhaps this life is filled with deception.
What must I do, when no one can hear them?
Do I embrace their lies, pretend they’re not poison?
I lay in silence as the world falls still,
Without a single word to tell me what’s real.
Now, if you’ve followed my confusing, babbling posts, you’ll know that I write, or at least, I claim to.
We all know how daunting it is to finish that first draft, but if you have pushed through that final page, you’ll know just how bitter-sweet a feeling it is.
Now, there’s no shame in admitting defeat at this point. What you’ve created is something incredible, but I struggle to even think about that second draft. Time and time I try, and time and time again I hate myself for writing such rubbish, even if it’s not.
Do you constantly have that urge to start over? Tell yourself that a fresh start is probably better than editing? Well stop with that thought. Don’t touch your novel for a day or two from this moment, and just think about it. Speculation of your work is far greater than reading through it over and over, spotting tiny errors, building a false impression that your time as wasted.
Once time has passed, after thinking abou your story, go back to it, and force yourself to fall in love with that scene, with those characters, with your work. Then, you’ll find yourself twitching to bsck into your weird little world, and crwtate something you can finny say you’re proud of.
I’m afraid of the closing of a past lifetime,
That dying light at the end of my horizons.
The dark send terror through my very existence,
Knowing I’ll soon forget the breeze of a thousand twilights.
The passing of a loved one marks the ticking of my time,
But what else can I do other than wait?
Wait for the curse of life’s greatest downfall,
Or perhaps embrace it as a gift of God?
The eclipse of my days may be set in stone,
But why can’t I resist the fear?
I feel it beckoning, disguised as the sun,
Yet there’s a shadow lurking beneath the rays.
Soon I shall pass, and not even know it,
Yet I still fear the very thing I was born to do.
The gold runs like blood from deep within,
Like a fury of thunder demanding to be heard.
It beats with my heart as my senses sharpen,
As your breath shudders while you drift off to sleep.
I feel the gold flow as I drift off to that gentle goodnight,
For I know you’ll be waiting for me through the mist of a nightmare.
I’ll stand my ground until my heart waives,
But even then it’ll beat forever.
I’ll turn the gravel into the dust of time,
I’ll only move until I can stand no longer.
I’m a patient man, but patience grows thin,
Thinner than my hair as time crawls by.
You told me to wait, but wait you did not,
So why must I refrain from letting myself go?
This music is touching, the string are prominent,
The notes rage like an undying cry.
You may hear it’s tone, but do you feel its story?
Sing like the birds on a crisp spring morning,
Wake like you have a purpose.
Pluck the string when all others are deaf to your calling,
Breathe like the summer breeze that dares to touch your skin.
I could have sworn that I loved you,
I would have died a thousand times.
I’d have fallen just to catch you,
I’d break my back just to keep you afloat.
But now I wonder if that was all true,
When I see your heart splitting for another.
Yet, I’d still pick you up when you’d fall,
Even if I’d shatter into splinters.