deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Writer's Bane
D a r k n e s s
It weighs down on my heart.
Dragging me down into the pits.
Where servants praise hungry Gods.
And witches sing lullabys of destruction.
I am a product of my own creation.
I built my own labyrith, each turn and twist.
Now I'm trapped inside of it, the researcher becomes the experiment.
This maze was created by my own bare hands.
So many lives were lost all because of my obsession.
I risked everything and lost it all.
Relationships, family and friends.
All were a sacrifice for an unforgiving cause.
I wrote my own fate with a pen to a page.
I fought tooth and nail through shadows and poison filled halls.
I hid among the shadows.
Using the demon's power as my own.
This dark magic became my only light.
When that part of my heart finally died.
With everyone around me, my own ghost abandoned me.
I don't hardly blame it.
If I was it, I would've done the same.
Here I was, t r a p p e d.
a l o n e, inside the mouth of hell.
I was insane, mad some would ever say.
The only light I took in was through open eyes.
The rest of me was cloaked in darkness, my only way to survive.
Clouds of smoke poisoned the air and burned my eyes.
My mind split open, and the knowledge of those arcane things became my own.
I learned of their sickness, their ways, their life.
I learned what I needed to become.
And so I said good-bye to the light.
And I became one among the darkness, among the hidden, the shattered, the insane.
I became something not of this world.
I became the writer's bane.
Obession filled my lungs.
Poison filled my blood.
R e v e n g e
Dare not speak it's name.
She took everything from me.
And so I silent her screams.
With the sword of the fallen.
Of the broken and the damned.
I lost everything. . .
My love--
My life--
My light--
My friends--
My family--
And, of course, my m i n d. . .
I lost it all in the end.
But still I returned from whence I came.
Something changed, warped, and tainted.
Little of the girl I use to be remains.
All that's left is this distorted figure.
A victim to my own creation.
And monstrosity all the same.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Nothing but the writer's bane.
It weighs down on my heart.
Dragging me down into the pits.
Where servants praise hungry Gods.
And witches sing lullabys of destruction.
I am a product of my own creation.
I built my own labyrith, each turn and twist.
Now I'm trapped inside of it, the researcher becomes the experiment.
This maze was created by my own bare hands.
So many lives were lost all because of my obsession.
I risked everything and lost it all.
Relationships, family and friends.
All were a sacrifice for an unforgiving cause.
I wrote my own fate with a pen to a page.
I fought tooth and nail through shadows and poison filled halls.
I hid among the shadows.
Using the demon's power as my own.
This dark magic became my only light.
When that part of my heart finally died.
With everyone around me, my own ghost abandoned me.
I don't hardly blame it.
If I was it, I would've done the same.
Here I was, t r a p p e d.
a l o n e, inside the mouth of hell.
I was insane, mad some would ever say.
The only light I took in was through open eyes.
The rest of me was cloaked in darkness, my only way to survive.
Clouds of smoke poisoned the air and burned my eyes.
My mind split open, and the knowledge of those arcane things became my own.
I learned of their sickness, their ways, their life.
I learned what I needed to become.
And so I said good-bye to the light.
And I became one among the darkness, among the hidden, the shattered, the insane.
I became something not of this world.
I became the writer's bane.
Obession filled my lungs.
Poison filled my blood.
R e v e n g e
Dare not speak it's name.
She took everything from me.
And so I silent her screams.
With the sword of the fallen.
Of the broken and the damned.
I lost everything. . .
My love--
My life--
My light--
My friends--
My family--
And, of course, my m i n d. . .
I lost it all in the end.
But still I returned from whence I came.
Something changed, warped, and tainted.
Little of the girl I use to be remains.
All that's left is this distorted figure.
A victim to my own creation.
And monstrosity all the same.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Nothing but the writer's bane.
Published 12th Dec 2014
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Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
14th Dec 2014 1:20am
Thank you, it was inspired by writer's block and a video game character, ironically. Anyway thanks for the comment and I'm glad you enjoyed the poem.
- Paige Rider
- Paige Rider
29th Dec 2014 4:16am
I find people often write better when they think they can't, (blocked or whatnot), and abandon efforts to rhyme. It comes out more natural thay way, I think. (Although sometimes the rhymes come.naturally too)
Keep going. You don't seem blocked to me.
Keep going. You don't seem blocked to me.
