I do not write anymore, I do not write anymore
These words defile my being and treat my mind like a mare solitude where they hide and conspire.
They conspire against my actions as they objectify my thoughts. I cannot ponder abt ideas without feeling methaphors caressing me gently. Nor can I dream without these syllables ironically trying to drain me of my will to fight back. Wherever I go I can feel the paradox of simile's lustful eye staring deep into my conscience. They make it so hard to wonder as for my imagination, well how could I when everytime I try these couplets pin me down and joyfully watch as nouns, and all their adjetives and relative pronouns have their way with me. The virginity of my soul is all but a distant memory and my inner joy is but a silent whispers compared to this raging anger I have on piercing screams of help while every organ became a witness and bystander to my mental assault. So how can I write anymore? How can I write anymore when each time I think these ideas seem to defile what once was a beautiful mind.