The Mighty Pen

With the tip of a pen a writer can venture anywhere in the world; just by scribbling the porous ink upon the cream-white page a whole new universe is created, inexistent to whatever was living once before – but what happens when his creations come to life – what happens when his stories become his realty? What happens when his radiant presence towards creation becomes a nightmare within his own conceptualized world? Could this truly be? Is this his reality? Or is this an illusion of the tortured subconscious mind, thoughts so powerful that they force themselves passed his creative daemon and feed upon his deepest darkest fears…

          He threw down the pen in frustration to all the rejection he faced – he became fed up with it all and had become lost in his vexing ego. He did create for his own purpose, for his own validation but here he is sitting at his boho-blanketed wicker chair, with acupressure holes upon his unclothed back, penning out idea after idea for the validation of others, with the hope of procuring a living within the imprisoned society that he is too chained to. Unpaid pills lay upon his nightstand and on the floor. He rubs his teared, hazel-doughy eyes in frustration. Gazing out the window to the white snow he saw a little girl standing in a vibrant red dress; she holds a black rose and petal after petal falls to the floor. The gusts of winter wind carry them away to the darkness beyond the street lamp.

Here was Death; lingering over my shoulders like a cold shadow. I felt her – she kissed my neck gently – it felt nice – it wasn’t cold at all but warm like a kiss from the sun on the coldest of days. I decided to stay. I chose to stay – more to do – more to see – more to be. Here I am mesmerized by that tall tree – its gray etched silhouette glued upon the black sky. Who’s talking? This is confusing to me? I don’t know if this is my Self, my ego, or the tall etched trees – I kept writing and then the stories began to lift off the page before my eyes. I was not sure if this was an illusion of creative euphoria, lack of sleep, lack of eats, or a combination of them all – I didn’t care. I don’t care. Sometimes I ramble on as if I’m speaking to myself in past, future and or present – but what is time anyway? Time is a sense of control to the uncontrollable. It’s a prison. It’s a hell on earth. Time does not exist. I cannot stress this enough. I was… I am possessed and I continued to write out my creative fixations.

It all then began; I remembered what I was running from – I remembered the immense pain and the feeling of acid rain. I’ve been hiding in isolation with my pen as my only friend while contemplating the bitter end. My fingers bleed and are calloused from pressing so hard. There is and has been no ink. I’ve been writing with my blood. It’s all my blood. Pages upon pages, scribble upon scribble. Fire burns by feet as I watch the world fall apart and now I cower as mine too turns to dark. If I write myself off with this newly discovered power of creative genius or deliria, would I then be remembered for my work – would someone discover my pen and cultivate this power and use it for horrors. What would they do with it? They could do worse things than I. I can’t have it. I’ll suffer eternally with my chosen acts of self-perpetuated violence and I shall attempt to destroy this pen by destroying my self.

I say unto you:

          no more blood, no more tears,

            you’re dead and gone,

            I’ve purged my fears…

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