these stories rooted deep –
tree trunks of Mother Nature’s creation
twisting ’round and intertwining
into intricate texts of olden age –
press against my eyes from within –
the veins popping and bursting,
turning what was once white
red and chewing at the tendons
that hold sanity together –
swarms of letters sting furiously
at my brain,
the swollen organ bursting against the seams
as my eardrums rupture
with the voices of a thousand warriors and scribes.
flesh melts and all is quiet,
except for the book where a hand once rested –
now molten skin, broken bone, and steaming nails –
waiting for its next victim.
A/N: That’s what I feel like on days where I am so restless with sentences and stories but can’t find the words to write or talk them out. It’s a nasty infection, I’m telling you. Also, normally, I just write my notes in bold at the bottom or a different font, but, now, I’m going to put A/N in front of it, just to be more specific hehe.