A Writer's Bane

Pens dance across oceans of white and black alike,
Elegantly, they spin and slide to the music they create,
Stories appear and another world is born,
A soul transferred, time lost and a heart, torn.

Slowly they rise as does the sanity of their creator decline,
A thousand lives lived through and a thousand eyes laid down to die,
A thousand tragedies, a thousand joys and still yet a thousand more,
The new land breathes a past that it cannot remember just yet.

A mirror shattered and all shall see through its shards, a piece of who they were,
A reachable kind of immortality that in our cruel world revolved around the concept of popularity,
An art reduced to a tasteless competition amongst manipulated trades of man-made currency,
Relive their lives, they implore you, so they not be forgotten but often, eyes that open do not see.

Stories, malformed and starved of passion are bound and presented,
Yet if they contain what the majority would enjoy, primitive instincts triumph over sophistication.
A kiss of warmth, to gaze into the fire beneath a light full of far away stars,
Yet everyone decides to bake themselves in a cave set alight with the entrance barred.

And so, a thousand lives that never live, die,
A new land breathes its last before it could flourish,
A war ends before it has begun,
A dance of ink and imagination done in vain.

The Narcissist

Roses dim but never grow,
In stars that shine not on saddened eyes,
Screaming yet in silence must,
Still she suffers but cannot die.

Yet you harm and claim blood your own,
Screech in fake agony with pointed finger,
Blasphemous to think other than you were wronged,
Slow poison to your loved ones forever lingered.

With sands that fall and seasons fly,
Hope anew flutters into their hearts,
Yet again and again arrows let loose,
Never letting wounds heal in time.

Questions you take and answers you give,
Doings betray confessions dear,
Remember, remember, and always remember,
Scars reflect in each and every tear.

For is that not the way to break this?
The mirror that holds your perfectly imperfect world?
Where the eyes of the beholder belong on you and only you,
Crowned to reap whatever that comes to.

And shows are celebrated way into the night,
Crocodile tears flood the theater,
You the 'star', with audience held hostage,
Marked and labeled for you to use as you saw fit.

One by one, the crowd will grow,
And more so shall that monstrous ego,
Collect, replace, use, recycle,
Was that not what you're doing to your second doll?

Claim to love but such can you justify?
Or is that the reason at all you fell into such chaos?
For in your world, is love only reciprocal if one suffers?
Is love only reciprocated if they tied themselves to you?

Watch while she wastes away,
Yet still you leech on,
For it was never allowed for her to suffer in your name, is it?
Or better said; it was never allowed for you to be named for it.