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.
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