I've given up the quest in writing the words that never come

I've given up the quest in writing the words that never come.

It's a mental bind that winds tighter till it impairs the ability to yearn for more.

But it's a sadistic ache that must be fed

Day in,

Day out,

You write…

You type…

To alleviate a never ending longing…

To express…

To repress…

To detach…

To belong,

To have ONE thing that only you can own,

That is than seen by others

and they interpret and you hate to watch...

To have it dissected and manipulated

In the thoughts of others

To then be returned to you

Disfigured and ambiguous

Nothing like what you designed…

And now you find

A Frankenstein you labored to reanimate.

It's never the same.

You can never write,

When the words finally come

On that brink of unconscious genius

You only find in sleep

You awaken harshly to find

The brilliance in sleep…

In dawn… unattainable

Imaginary

On the tip of your tongue

But broken like a language that's foreign

I've given up the quest in writing the words that never come.

It's a mental bind that winds tighter till it impairs the ability to yearn for more.

But it's a sadistic ache that must be fed

Will never be fed.

I'm glutton for the written word,

And the words that never come…

Will always be my sin