08 THE GRAVE ROBBER

THE GRAVE ROBBER 

As the smoke settles

(thick mix of cheap cigar

And strong Asian blend of

Spices compressed

In a single scented vine

Of incense)

I can see the page

Where my words supposedly come to life,

And jump out towards me

Like arrows

Flying through the smoke

Scraping my head,

Making me realize just how

Dull they really are.

I tried to jumpstart them,

I tried to breath life in their

Dead and dry lungs, but

These words are long gone

And now meaningless.

Useless.

So why do I keep writing?

Why do I force myself to

Dig out the corpses laying

In the graveyard in the back of my mind?

Maybe because somewhere inside of me

I can’t really bring myself to stop.

Maybe these zombies moaning and

Wobbling their way through these

White pages, spreading their black blood

Everywhere are just as alive

As any other creature that

Walks the earth.

Maybe the fact that I write them

Is enough to give them meaning.

Maybe this. Maybe that.

Maybe I’m just full of shit and complain too much.

Maybe I should just stop writing.

Maybe later.