I never wanted to write only with words.
But in this abyss of a universe,
My color-warped mind is slipping.
There is nothing but words, in all the corners of my body,
And like a leech, a disease, it clings to me,
Sucking me in for more.

Today I heard someone say
That the real writers do not write to create beauty—
That the real writers are the ones
Suffocating in their gruesome thoughts
Because it is their only survival.

But how is it that every time
I stare at a blank paper, pouring torrents of words,
That I have no idea who is behind the letters?
For all I know, it could be some sunshine-filled child
Or a ruined ex-lover of everything that everyone knows,
Or a nothingness that no one cares to find.

As more of my emptiness comes flushing out,
My bleak box of a house looms all the more,
Trapping me in, closing all my doors,
And reeking of the austere mess that is me.
And somehow, someway,
The words are a trance, a loveless love
To keep me guessing at a knowledge I can't reach,
And pining for a passion that pins me down.

Why is it that I continue, again and again,
To let loose these words, these so simple yet complex words?
At times, it feels like my chest will burst
And release some patched-up, damaged-for-good heart.
So maybe the words, like magic, sing lullabies to lull my cuts,
And tell me, in a mother's rocking arms, that it'll be alright.

Or maybe it is so that I can tell romance-ridden lies,
Dream up moon-sparkling dreams that I can only savor in sleep.
Or maybe it's because it is all I have left,
After I've been sick with a heartbroken apathy
That has flamed on for so long
I can't even remember if anything is wrong.

All I know is that beauty is no longer a player in this dictionary.
No more of that "What do I want to write about today?"—
Awkward arrangements, words of broken connexions,
The much-too cryptic and senseless—
It will all flow away with the river of my history.
All that has eroded in my ribcages will be lost forever,
And all that spews forth now is what I'll become.

But as for what I'll become, only the sky knows.
What counts in this gem-buried life is that I will be.
Writing straight from soul to paper,
Writing to understand the person who writes,
Writing because it is what I know and what I breathe—
That is the only way out.