Of Pens and Swords and Blood

So many words and feelings swirling inside me.  No outlet for my emotional constipation.  If words were blood id slit my wrists just to let them out.  To feel empty and numb for a minute.  I drink away the feelings but it’s over too soon.  They come rushing back like a meteor headed towards the sun, ready to make it burst and flame out forever.  I take pills to numb my mind but then my skin crawls with all the feelings that are slithering over it.  There’s not enough of anything but pain and anger and words.  Words that used to be my escape, my consolation, have become a demon chasing me.  Day and night, waiting to pounce on my weary brain and barrage me with feelings and helplessness.  I wish I could edit my life like I can the words on paper.  Cut out things and people and paste in others.  Or just leave it blank.  Sometimes blank looks good to me.  No jumble.  No misunderstanding.  No words.  Even when I sleep the words assault me.  Images and distortion and longing and weeping.  Words in red for anger and passion.  Words in black because of the emptiness.  Words in green that are envious and jealous of the actions others get.  And all I get are words.  The pen is mightier than the sword.  The sword can take a life.  But the pen, and the words that are captured with it, can take a soul or a sanity.  Take my pen and give me a sword.  Let me take action against action and not words against insanity and soullessness.  You can lay a sword down, but once you have held the pen, the words become part of you and there’s no escaping them.  Give me a sword and take this damned pen. 

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