Sometimes I run out
of ideas,
The words, the
thoughts, and tunes disappear,
I call to facts and
sleeplessly peer,
At walls, blanks, my
face in the mirrors,
I smile, and think, am
done with the calling,
That sick obsession,
the darkness that’s throbbing,
Hang up my pen throw my book in the gutter,
And keep off my keys
like it all never mattered,
I go for a week and
a half if am lucky,
But just when am chill
then my reckoning follows,
I feel it’s a tale
that I started at birth,
And ‘till in my
grave, it won’t give me a berth,
I sit and I walk,
and I eat and I talk,
But with these, I can
pass not the same for my pen,
I know in my heart
am a slave to the art but inside I can see that the trap is my key,
It’s hard to be different,
With voices for
friends,
And a sickness that
gnaws,
An aversion to norm,
I feel it’s a tale
that won’t probably die,
And sometimes man it
hurts I was chosen to tell,
But it’s life, and
it’s death,
It’s my prison and
hell but a gate to the skies,
I feel it’s a tale of a man with a soul,
Drawn to the dark, to demons, and gods,
And although it
might hurt to live in the pan,
I got not a choice it’s
my burden to write.
@Job Kerry
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