Maelstrom143, By Sun or Candlelight
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2015-04-24 03:59:09 (UTC)


To write, to bleed, to filet my soul out to the masses that they should see me raw and naked in the light of day. One does not choose to flay oneself alive. A hunger, an itch, a demon riding bare upon your back, talons sunken deep within your flesh, dried blood streaking flanks, shredded bits dangling in air, never letting up until the vision has been birthed; a bloody birth, with shutters thrown wide open in display. And here you hold this bloody mess, the threads of thoughts dripping wet, a mad Rubik's cube to be deciphered, painstakingly put into faded and pale words, never truly to capture the essence and colors swirling behind your eyes and yet, it is born and only then does the demon rest, a brief moment of respite from the maelstrom of thoughts unchecked.