Man In The Radiator

 I haven't been able to write in a while. It all came down again. A low period. An unshakable grip from the barren desolation of an overwhelming abyss. I don't think I really mean anything I've written in this poem, well, I guess some of it I do mean and feel to a horrible degree. But it isn't fair to still be writing about this drivel. I thought I moved on, or I was moving on, but it all came back to me in such a horrific way and I don't know what to do but to force myself to write it all out in a desperate attempt to get rid of it all. It doesn't work. But I was beginning to feel horribly disgusted with myself for not being able to write for a while, and this particular piece of writing is a woeful return to poetry and is quite frankly a mess that I do not wish to edit or reread or revisit ever. However, maybe I got it out of my system. The next thing I write will be free of ruminations of this particular person who has all but ruined me and will hopefully be ...

Why does it have to be like this? Will I ever not feel the most intense feeling of shame and existential disgust within myself when I am incapable of writing? I'm extraordinarily fed up with going through periods of productivity followed by a glut of nothingness where even the mere thought of actually writing something down feels like a massive crowbar slowly cracking open my skull. Going on and off my pills in irregular intervals hasn't helped, I assume. But either I stay on the pills and suffer the side effects or I unburden myself from them and tempt the failing strength of my head and its abilities to stave off my suicidal ideation and constant unrest. Now they want me on Xanax. Or Lithium. But it could be much worse, I realize. I don't need these pills to literally stay alive, but in a way, it does feel that way. I don't know what part of me and my mind actually functions properly. Clearly not the creative part. Anyway, this is a poem I attempted to write, I don...

 This is a story that sort of just exploded out of me. There isn't much to it and I didn't feel like I had much control while writing it. Maybe that's why it is perhaps not very good. Working on this story and also battling with my medication and its increasingly unpredictable effects on me is probably why I haven't been writing too much recently, but hopefully that will change soon. And as for now, I got this stupid little story out of my system. I apologize for using the same vocabulary all the time and for always writing about graveyards and undead things - I am incapable of progressing.  Sorrow Is Her Name I can hear the dramatic, heavy flapping of vulture wings above my head, their hungry and sharpened beaks ready to plunge. The sounds of church bells pealing wildly and without pattern or rhythm in the distance, or sometimes resonating from the very epicenter of my poisoned heart. I know my time here is on the verge of expiration. I know that my ill-fated and impul...