Something to write at Night

Something to write at Night


Black and white digital cubes blink as i look upon the ever inbiding screen.
Winking with her woeful eyes, asking me to bide my time, asking the deepest chambers of my zimmering soul; what kind of fucking creature are you?
I don't answer, instead my stomach just feels as ever empty as every time i have ever been asked.

Stupid human sitting here amongst the rest, pityful sight, one we all dream to be beneath our own pristine person, indeed, our most divine destiny driven self.
So much time has passed. So many writers have been born, and so many have been eaten by selfinflicted gehenna. Artists in the greatest sense of the word. Sadists in the smithering lense of the world.

Only the poor have the time to experience humanity, while the rest will break down in a colorful overdose.

A strange glooming athmosphere lies in the air tonight.
I see it clearly behind my closed eyes.

Could my melancholic feeling of this great emptyness really be the fault of abscenced warmth? So superficial and dumb, clearly thats not me.

My great work of art is all i need, my great giant castle of broken glass, broken glass and children crying while the others are playing, great big alchohol reeking castle, my mount everest of basic love and life bursting like a baloon reaching too high, my selfloathing ache of a life in which i lie, or wished to be lying in.

Why do my heart beat if not to beat again? Asking questions in the end, as it did in the start?