Monday, May 16, 2005

The Hollow Man

Everybody has their own visions
of terror. Something they are
mortally afraid of.
That they cannot face.
However brave they might be.

Mine is,
coming home to
an empty page.

It always feels good
to come home looking
forward to rereading
and moulding some
germ of an idea.

To try to…
capture a bolt of lightning
paint a smile
stitch up an unhealed wound
recall a fragrance
revivify a fading memory…

Or just conjure up a scrabble
to brighten up
a dark day,
merely by wordplay.

I destress myself, spend
absorbing time with them
and then go to sleep
a good nights sleep, because
of the numerous germinating
ideas on paper.
And in my dreams.

Its like, words though
inanimate, makes me feel alive.

Few live up to their words.
Even less, for their words.
My words justify
my nondescript existence.

So its scary. Not easy
to look at my emptiness,
when there is nothing to
look forward to
come home to.

An empty page.

Terrifying, like
I got no face,
when I look at myself
in the mirror.