rambling of a distraught author

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i write and i write but how can i describe the feelings that i have yet to experience with words i can't even begin to know the meaning of?

how am i to describe the heartache of love gone sour when i have yet to truly fall in love and have only had my heart broken, not twisted so?

dare i speak of the blade that runs through blood and bone when i cannot even begin to fathom the pain and the sound of soul separating from flesh?

how am i to know the true meaning of red lips and green light when the only beauty and longing i know is when the rose longs for the sun?

am i destined to ineptly imagine every situation known to all of mankind except the one who is trying desperately to document it all?

how is it possible to write and write and yet know near to nothing of the victims of my butchery and slandering pictures from words?

how dare i even consider that i know the words to begin the end of a life or by which one cries out their guilt and grief and pain?

are my words so inadequate that by their mere breath on my fingertips they so foully destroy the world i sought to create in my image?

i write and i write yet i do not, cannot, have not known what i write about, and so does my murder and blasphemy of creation continue still?

is there any relief for my torturous and deadly prose, so ensnared by my crippled experienced that to not write and write at all would be a blissful end?

can i find that peace, that honey-sweet nothingness in my words, that so longingly calls from black holes in my soul?

and yet, and yet, i cannot let myself be at peace, for is not dying to oneself the equal of killing the soul and quill of the author?

is not the quiet scratching of pen on paper and the tapping of keys late into the night my very lifeline, my very pulse?

how can i die to myself and let that angel that ever so softly asks me to destroy my heart live and flap her wings victoriously?

am i supposed to simply roll over and allow my very essence to be escorted across that eternal river, never to be seen again?

would not the murder of such a heartbeat be unforgivable in my own eyes and in the hearts of others who followed such a fate?

and so do i kill that angel and thrive upon the unknown and save my life or spare the massacre of diction and words and my paper victims ?

such is the qualm of a writer and an author...

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