Lost in my words

Lost in my own words, lost without an idea, lost without a clue of how to go on. So what words can I use to inspire that little spark I’m clinging to with all my reserves, to ignite into the final prophecy, the last chapter, the closing page. It’s pain and misery that force these words, its chaos and confusion that drives me on, helplessly, hopelessly, never seeing where or when this will all dry up. To what end do I seek this reprieve, the only catharsis from the destruction in my brain. I cant hold virtue in my hands without tarnishing it with my sin, no innocence will remain pure in my presence, no words of truth pour from my pen. Am I just the scribe, trying in vain to match the words in my head, or does the poetry run thru my veins and only the suffering fuels the fires of creation. Are the feelings you read as real as the words I write, or does all this bleak imagery only prove my insanity, the irrationality that’s put me here at 2am questioning the only immortal gift I could ever possess.
Yet still these demons exist, the ones I run from every night, hiding my fears in these pages, camouflaging my hopes amongst the black and red outpour of blood and soul. The beast that is me fights against the oppression of memory, the knowledge of broken deeds and broken hearts, the pure understanding that only twilight brings. The angel of the dark love burns inside me, forcing me to hate the body, the mind, the heart and the soul, giving salvation in her empty arms, giving sanctuary in her empty heart. What price is this release worth, what cost am I willing to pay. A sleepless night, a restless day, a pins-prick of pain or the loss of feeling of mind or flesh?
Who will judge these words I pretend are mine, who will see my soul spread amongst these ruins, who will care if my lifes work is never completed. Now the question changes, the focus shifts and loses resolve, even the answer has no meaning. There is no sense of purpose, no definition of a higher reason, only a lack of desire to see how it all will end. Time and again the train of thought wanders across the blank page, the ideas lose themselves concealed within the context. A basis of description within my head  pours out words of longing and fear and dreams never said. The image blurring into obscurity from mind to mouth, from pen to page. All essence of a desired reaction lost when the ink bleeds onto parchment, the sentiment will never hold strong against the harsh light of reality.
Excess tightens my hand against the cramps, real pain floods through the imagined, a conceptual fear keeps my fingers holding onto the knife my wrist will never feel, my cowardice stops the strike, my trepidation forces the pain from blade to quill, it’s the words that are my witness, the only proof of my crimes.
Yet nothing ever gets said.