Today I vowed not to upload anything until I'd written, re-written and edited it to death until it was as soulless as what passes for 'reworked versions.' But vows are broken easily. I'm sorry but those countless re-writes aren't me. I just go with it, see where it leads.
A riot of ideas that will never work on paper,
Screech and writhe demonically to be heard,
In my mind, they lie,
Entangled in webs of depression,
They are stabbed by talons of frustration,
So that they bleed like open scabs,
All hope is stained to rusted crimson.
I want to write but I am afraid,
Of what will be said,
The written hurts more than the spoken.
A suicide note would scar you deeper,
Than the words "I want to die."
These failed ideas and harsh critiques,
Feel like blades being driven into my soul.
Remastered, reworked, revisited, revised, re-written,
I'm sorry but that isn't me.
You can't re-write the darkest hours of your life,
That are recorded on those blood-stained notebook pages.