Faces of lives hang above my bed at night
Stories that scream to be told
Dreams and nightmares leave me restless at night
I write them to be read by they who have held my heart
As I know they are quite so bold.


I never write anymore, at least that is until tragedy strikes, and even then the pen never makes it to the paper. Novels written and locked away deep in the caverns of my mind will never see the light of day or even the burning imprint upon my screen. Entities brought about and destroyed in all of their due times matter not in the scheme of reality in the making. Reality that is so easily bent, broken, and manipulated to show anyone's side of their truth. Reality that hasn't been very real for me for many moons now.

It seems that the real problem isn't that the rules set forth by the realism of life have ceased my creativity but that I myself and holding something back. Maybe being held back. No that can't be right. Why blame someone for what is truly my own problems? Because it is simpler that way, for a scapegoat is never hard to come by or because at every bonfire a witch has to be burned and I wish for it not to be me?