Sta.sh
Only sounds came out of the locked room at the end of the corridor -
Those of pen gliding across paper.
Inside, darkness, with the exception of a small, bleak desk light,
The writer leaned forward,
Putting everything down with mad haste.
Around him, the skeletons of his past laid, spread across the room -
Giving him inspiration while filling him with fear and madness.
At times he swore he could hear them speak,
After all, whenever he turned around, they were starring at him with a big smile on face.
Oh, how he had grown to enjoy that eeriness -
Smiling right on back.
Sometimes even starring at them for hours on end.
Talking,
Telling them how he truly felt.
Of course, they willingly listened to his glorious speech filled with regret.
Never judging, staying silent until the end.
The graveyard silence was one of those gifts he could never receive any place, but in this room.
Solitude - eternal and melancholic.
Melancholy that's exactly why he enjoyed it.
It had become something more then just a feeling of depression.
It had become sweet like honey,
A refreshing nectar more addicting than any drug.
Making him miserable, yet keeping him enchantingly in love.
The comfort of the room came from the cold, in which he could see his own breath.
Yes, there was truth in it as well as in the harsh pain which came along with it.
This was fine.
He liked it thit way because to him that was the way it was meant to be -
Nothing came without a price, paid in pain.
When he ran out of ideas he would turn off the bleak light,
Allowing the darkness to creep into every corner.
Everything around him turning pitch black.
The key to his writing was exactly that -
Empty blackness which covered him all over,
Embracing his very soul until he felt a strange warmth.
From it he could draw up ideas that couldn't be found in any light.
A hallow and forsaken beauty all his own.
So with the help of all of this,
He wrote and wrote,
For hours, days, weeks on end.
Once finally finished,
He would stare at all he had written-
Happy with himself, he'd turn off the light once again.
After time passed he'd switch the light back on,
Starring at the work he had left on his desk.
The sheets of paper empty -
Not a single word seemed to have been written.
For a moment he regained the sanity he lost long ago.
Remembering that in this room his words could never truly exist.
Not in a purgatory like this.
He sighed,
The cold forming a picture of it in the stale air.
Realizing eternity wasn't over,
He silently sat down and started writing once more.
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The skeletons a writer lays bare and finds inspiration from that was also one of my favorites...Made me think of the many times I pull mine out from the closet to get inspiration from (good or bad).
Best of 2012 I think
I look forward to writing more unique pieces such as this during 2013 (as soon as I get back from hiatus that is).
(Sometimes, I feel the skeletons spying on me when I write, too. Gives me shivers.)