Once upon a time, I could write
Draft beautifully constructed sentences
And verbose tapestries across the skies
Grammatically correct forms weaving imagination to life
Pronouns and adverbs working together
With nouns and verbs
Prepositions and adjectives hand in hand
Constructing calculated, choreographed conjunctions
The ins and outs of English at fingertip's reach
My very mind laid bare for the world to view
And examine, pick apart with their owns
Once upon a time.

Now, I sit and ponder
And loathe everything I type
I am the Phantom, and the words are my face
Something I love to hate
And the staring souls of other's eyes
Cowardly assuring it's alright and well written
As if themselves were seeking acceptance through my words
But I am no bloodthirsty diplomat, seeking peace with a cadaverous meat cleaver
Humbly, just a kid with a pad and pen, seeking a story to tell
I type and write, but only circularly, wasted actions on a bedroom couch
Like some soulless automaton instructed to scribbled

I've forgotten my past, my writings and words
Characters and plots dance pointlessly in my skull
Seeking to be let loose, like the dogs of war
Wanting to ravage the paper and claim it for themselves
But I can't, I don't know how to
So they wait and dance, but mostly wait
Hungering like some ravenous wolf starved for weeks, too weak to actually kill
I'm worried that they'll abandon me, eventually
But secretly, I long for it
Perhaps they'd find someone more expressive
Ever precise with words
And less untalented, that's a must

I feel them dancing out my ears and eyes
Right before my face, they dance in the airy chasm
Gleeful and free. It brings both sorrow and joy
I wave goodbye to the air, as others looked worriedly
I wave goodbye, and feel for my conformity to the world
A world where daring to dear is treason
When stories and fairy tales are scoffed at
And only the 9 to 5 matters
Methodical and mathematical in it's torture
Strangling each one of my arts as they dance out the door
I hear the screams and wonder what have I done

I seek to save them now,
But...it's too late.
A novel baptized in blood
Grim as it would seem
My fate is sealed in their ink stained body outlines
Imagination tears itself asunder inside
Agonizing the terrible loss today

Once upon a time, I could write
But now, now I only scribble senselessly
A mad man's manifestations of deepest dark dreams
No mind to think, no heart to feel, no soul to pour.
Only hands to grasp, only ink to waste, only paper to crumple.
The words are all dead. There is no happy ending here. They shall not live long.
Because I killed them with my own...two...hands.
And now this damned ink spot won't come out.