I Won't Let You Down; I'll Always Let You Down Again...

Everything stopped. Nothing was moving. My mind was stagnant. I felt emotionless. That's brilliant for some. For me it was homicide. Like infection on the brink of cure; it couldn't last forever - I hoped. How cancerous can stagnancy become? Asphyxiate. Suffocate. Contemplate. Knock knock. Shatter shatter. The Harriet Tubman of imagination arrived to release my soul to freedom - thank God. The faucet turned on and ink, like bleeding wounds, ran rampant. It covered the pages, it tore through the paper as if searching for some buried secret and wouldn't rest until all was uncovered. I found it. Deep within the wells of conscience, it was. Flooding out like fountains, it poured. I drowned in it. It covered me. My hands looked like a typesetter and my white heart grew speckled with black oil and fingerprints. The billows grew. growing, growING, grOWING, GROWING! Splash, splash, splash! I swam through the streaming muses and clung to my pen to stay afloat in the churning waves of flowing thought. Undertows dragged me to the ocean floor. sink! Sink! SINK! Blackness. Everything was black there. Tiny fish lived in tiny houses with tiny front doors and tiny windows. They wore tiny sweaters and drove tiny, little cars to their respective work-places. Where was I? Did I die? I couldn't have. All I was doing was writing a ridiculous story. BANG! Biting claws. Bright light. I was torn from the inkwell and ripped through the sky and up to some place high above everything. Dear God, it felt windy. Flying. I looked down on the storm and the waves and the ships being eaten alive by the monstrous ocean of devouring ink I'd created. It all seemed so brooding. I smiled. Black rain poured from even blacker drawings of ever growing storm clouds. Screaming, childish, letters clung desperately to pages for safety - while the pages, growing soggy from the fluid, fought heroically to stay afloat despite the added weight. Pirate ships and princesses from other sonnets and stories soon appeared; washed in by the raging vastness, I suppose. What a gathering. Serpents climbed from the deep to swallow prose and consume full paragraphs of things that I had written. I fought to find structure in the chaos of beauty and destruction. CRASH! Lightning. Thunder boomed. I covered my ears. I fell. Down. down? DOWN! and onto some random island. Shivering, frightened, Rhymes gathered in groups, hiding from the rain and consoling younger Lines near the fading shoreline. The rain poured violently. What was left anymore? I walked the island but soon discovered it to be merely a dinner plate lost within the ever rising flow of endless endlessness. I didn't see it ending. "We're all lost!" faithless Lyics cried. The rain poured in and the plate kept sinking. Soon there was no one left. Alone. I floated a while - clutching to whatever helpless substance floated by; a wasted thought or a drowning fragment, a lifeless phrase or broken piece of tainted inspiration. Finally, I guess it all ended; or I just got rather sick of it all. I found myself back on the couch, mindlessly flipping through photographs and questioning my ability to reason. No ink. No source of brilliance or clever composition. Just vastness. My hands are no longer black with toil and my paper looks pure and un-attended. It's raining now; fitting for such an occasion. Some black&white film skips across the television and reminds me of black and white pictures in some black and white story about black ink oceans and white dinner plates I once read somewhere. Penguins fit quite easily here. Killer Whales too. It went like that for awhile; my cluttered thoughts and memories. Then everything stopped. Nothing was moving. My mind was stagnant. I felt emotionless. That's brilliant for some. For me it was homicide...