My guts hurt…

I can’t seem to get rid of you. The more I pull away the more you draw me back in. You’re sucking the life out of me. The chaos in my guts destroying me minute by minute. You’re eating at my insides and yet… I can’t get rid of you. Every inch, every curve, every single shape of you sucks me right in and I get lost. I get lost in the endless labyrinth pit you’ve turned into. I’ve tried countless times but the more everyone talks, the more I come back to you, waiting to see if I can make a difference. But, touching you seems pointless. You never seem to finish. Caressing you takes too much time. I’m impatient, violent in my affection. Take your time you demand. I can’t. I love you too much and therefore hate you with all my being. I loathe the moment my mind’s eye became fixed on you. You were timid and shy. I took you forcefully, kissed you everywhere, sprinkled you with all the time my life could afford and you… you tortured me. You torture me still.

I can’t seem to let you go. I fear others may judge but that’s not it. It’s because you’re needy. The nourishment you require, specific, detailed. I can’t handle you sometimes. You kill me with your vocabulary, as if you had no education whatsoever, as if… You’re a fake! A farce gone too far and yet you beckon with your language, this need to speak to me in a tone familiar and not. I become like a young child afraid of what it means.  Afraid of not living up to expectation.  Controlling you is completely wasted energy. You have no rein, no steering mechanism. You’re loose and unpredictable. You explode my brain and I am weak at your feat.

I can’t for the life of me seem to let you go. You’ve punched my confidence so deep in the guts, it’s lost its shape almost vanishing. It lingers behind me waiting for who knows what. It’s impossible to lead you anywhere much less have you lead me. I’ve tried. It doesn’t work. You have your own mind and you beat me with it. Still… you’re mine. I have total control as you do me. I have complete authority over you as you do me. I have no more wit than what you yourself have allowed me to carve out. But… you end me. You finish who I am as a person and continue my poem as you please. This is not a game. I’m serious and you laugh. I’m sad and you’re not. You go on as if nothing, as if I mean nothing! Still I have control, some, anyway. I can bend you any way I like. I can attack you from behind and seep into the pages of your body without stopping, without reservation as to the consequence.

Consequence. You’re a disaster and you know it. Only I can fix you. You are dependent on me to take care of you to, to lead you into victory. You have no victory without my hand in it. You are nothing without me. You stare back at me and you laugh out of nervousness because you know I’m right. I am right! You are mine to have, mine to control, mine to abuse, my slave. Yes! I can draw you out in as many ways as I wish. I can issue you a sentence fit for the ugliest of prisoned dictionaries. I hate the way you sound. You are hideous to me and yet so comforting, familiar. I’ve been with you way too long. It’s time to move on! I can’t seem to quit you. But I want to leave you be and let life deal with the consequence of you, the imperfect you, the controversial you.

Reading too many articles and other such rhetoric regarding perfecting the art of writing a novel and/or creating any such work. The consequence being… I’m not done with Some Kind of Heaven but I aim to be done, at some point complete this work that has me so unglued like a lover does his nymph. I just need to be more courteous with my time or I will regret it dearly. I know it. I hope in the end someone, a single person, will have enjoyed it. I think I might have grown to hate it by then. I’m tormented with the inside of my thoughts, their significance in my life. I’m not stressed but frustrated with wanting to let it go and not. Perfection. There is no such thing. I’m no writer. I’m just a story-teller, a poet without poetry because M.A.T.L. Book 1 took its place when it came to life in my head. I’ve got to suck it up. I’ve got to swallow an proceed but… my guts hurt.

8 thoughts on “My guts hurt…

      1. I’m not sure… Odd thing, I am sure I keep seeing your comments in Pending for some reason. Can’t see anything in Pending or Spam at the moment though, so if you have left a comment since I commented here, then I am not sure whats gone wrong…

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