PurpleGazlene

The orange flame on the candle flickered, causing a dim light to cast throughout the dark living room. It's quiet. So quiet, in fact, you could almost say mother nature herself declared this Sunday afternoon to be absolutely silent just for this moment to take place. You're sprawled out on the small leather couch that's in your friend's living room, your fists clenching  reflexively as a signal that, yes, you are in pain and yes, you want to pull all your disgustingly greasy hair right out of your pounding head. Your head is in said friend's lap, and you're facing that wax candle sitting on the coffee table. Your eyes are fixed right on that

And as cliche as it may be, When we take "the long sleep", We don't get night-lights. And the truth is- I'm scared of the dark. So, no, I'm not "ready"- I'll never be "ready"- But I know That I never want to reach the point where my hands Are too shaky to hold a pencil, Because I have nothing left to write down. I know that I don't want to die like some out-grown t-shirt, Crumbled and fading in an unconcerned closet, I know that I don't want to go stale in some hospital cabinet, Alone with a too-loud TV and the nagging idea that whatever I did, I should have done more . When I die, I want to die as me, Not this wrinkled t

Because I wanted to write of stars Of wings Of fog-choked dawns in Dublin And the whispered panic behind nightmares-- And somehow It all comes back To you. You and your poet's fingers And your critic's eyes And your absolute love for all my poetry, Just as long as it was about You, Little word-stealer. Little book-burner. All I wanted Was to look down at this page And see poetry. Moonlight and monsters and broken glass and roaring silence-- And all I see Is you. So shut up, little wall-builder. Little puppet-master. Shut up and go away and bring my words back-- Take these loose-leaf notebooks and all their Stillbor