Thursday, March 14, 2013

Writing a book

Well you aren't "invited to my suicide". Or maybe you are. How much blood do you want to see splattered on the page. Doctor, I think the victim will live. Bitter, jealous, full of rage.
Exercising thoughts I long fought gone, recalling days I long wished past, driving nails into my hands, a martyr to the very last.
I type, I shiver, I quiver with fear.I write the words and you appear. I gave you passage through my heart. Again I suffer for my art.
Oh woes are me. And so is joy. I will tell my story if you will hear me. This bag of tales has made me weary. I smear my past with invisible ink. It is there but not to be seen. A dream. a drama. Mother mama, wife friend and queen.
Read.

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