The Pen Clock

"Just stop pressuring me, makes me want to scream." -Michael Jackson

Its one of those days when I'm disappointed in humanity.
Its one of those days when I'm disappointed in myself.
Its one of those days when just the sound of a stranger's voice makes me want to melt into the floor and die. Nothing personal, but yeah, I hate you too.

I hate boys.
I hate girls.
I hate pink and pretty.
I hate dark and ugly.

And I so very much despise being so lonely.

I never mentioned why I wanted to write. Maybe most of you assumed there wasn't a reason. Maybe you thought it was something just to pass the time. Maybe its the only thing I think I'm good at.

My Pen is a Clock and when it runs out so do I.

I want to write because when someone asks me what's wrong with me, saying it aloud would be terribly wrong. There's so much drama in my soul, that to hear it spoken would make it sound pretentious, pathetic, ridiculous and unreal. Even when I say it to myself it makes me cringe. The sadness, the desperation, the fear is so complete that it can't be heard except through seeing. I can't contain it, so I try to explain it. That can't be done, so I try to express it. Who doesn't enjoy a clever turn of phrase, a touching inner monologue or the cow jumping over the moon? Its all a story. All of it is a story.

And when I write a story, it doesn't have to be real. Nothing that I'm feeling has to be real.

The heartbreak I feel is just a subplot.
The pain I feel is just dramatic tension.
The fear I feel is only a sentence.
The tears I cry don't belong to me.

The loneliness I experience is naught but a metaphor.

I write instead of bleeding. I edit instead of dying.

The Ink that stains my hands is what keeps me alive. Its how I explain to the world.
Its how I explain to Stephanie.
And Tim.
And Samantha.

The Ink is blood I couldn't shed. The Ink is words I haven't said.
Its personal. Oh so personal.
Every blank surface is another container. Every word I scribble is something I don't have to contain. At least for a little while.

These words are the Scream no one will ever hear. The Question that I may never answer.
Am I Fact or am I Fiction?

Or somewhere lost between...
Just another twisted book on the shelf of some desecrated library?

My Pen is a Clock and when it runs out so do I.

"You keep changing the Rules; while I'm playing the Game.  I can't take it much longer- I think I might go insane." -Michael Jackson

The End

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