I scribble and etch these words on the wall, teetering on this ladder, one wobble from falling.  But what would it matter in the end if I can’t release this colors that dance within my head.  I can’t capture the coral of this passion that’s brewing.  I can’t write of the teal that’s peeling my skin away from my skull and for nothing at all - it’s all pain, no escape.

Let me write.  Let it out.  As I scream and I shout I can’t make sense of it all.  And when I write on these walls it’s cluttered and strewn from corner to corner with no order to behold.  No form to slip in to.  No frame to break free from.

Remember when I could write the thoughts of others and steal their breath along with them? Render them speechless and awed.  They’d pause and wonder what witchcraft I held in the palm of my hands to make this pen dance so gracefully before them.

And now…

And now I can feel the rats scratching on my left hemisphere as I paint over the words I’ve written yet again.  I run against the padded walls hoping to fall into a deep sleep that will last for weeks and maybe I’ll wake up with something to write about.  But it didn’t happen last time…

The written word evades me as the colors of myself fade to grey then blink away.

I am nothing.

Nothing but a book filled with eraser-marked pages.

Tagged:  yds,   prose,   words,   featured,  
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