True Love of Coffee

I trusted myself, more than I should have

There was deceit in my mind,

burrowing in my thoughts

My hands were corrupt, covered in soil and hate

And my words, my words…

.

They were simply venomous

So sharp my own tongue bled as I spoke

Every word was painful,

Fueling the anguish in my soul

Leaving me a taste so foul, that I could not focus

On anything but rage

.

I tore at myself,

Loathing the very substance of each phrase

Finding each phrase almost unbearable

as I screamed out my life

My skin crawled with regret

Knowing I could never convey anything but lies

And knowing that I despised myself for it

.

My soul, a black void that consumed itself

Choking on each thought as it tried leaving my lips

And feverishly wanting someone to make me quiet

To hold me down,

Knock me senseless,

And help me end the lunacy of dreadful imagination

.

There was no salvation, no quiet meadow

No, for me there was only a chaotic room of voices

Crazy thoughts and half-finished sentences

A little white room with no doors

And only myself to talk to

My own cellmate in this purgatory of creativity

This entry was posted on Thursday, August 31st, 2006 at 7:27 am and is filed under Coffee - Volume Two, Mystery, Loss. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.