Writers’ Asylum

They’re all lunatics, every last one of them.
Howling, screaming, laughing, wailing, people.
They won’t stop with the WORDS.
Every single second of every single hour
The words pour from their
mouths and hands and eyes
like rain
Except this rain doesn’t cease
It’s a torrent of creativity,
All spewed out at once in a cacophony of genius turned foul by the faulty human mind as
time and fear and life and death and pain
started to rip out certain parts of that once sensational brain
Until there was nothing left
Nothing but
A garbled storm of thought and skewered contemplation
A slap in Reflection’s face
He is splayed out upon
The ground, the burning ground,
Covered with ash and smoke and nothing
He screams
Journals full of pages of unwritten potential
The ink pen bleeds out slowly
Where it lies broken in half by
The hands which once caressed it
Those hands which are now
Stained black with guilt and sorrow
The splintered desk moans as it
Lies on its side
Unable to rise again
Without its master’s hands
They scream, all the time, those writers
They’re insane
Without any restraint to that abundant connection they had
To the universe and its inner workings,
that understanding which overwhelms without sanity to constrain it
It’s an asylum,
An asylum for writers
Whose crippled hands twist and shake
As they long to bring out their purpose
As they beg
To write to write to write
Whose heads pound with the fury of those
Unreleased words
Which ricochet about within their conscious much like the sharpest type of
Those words which echo and clap like
laughing, mocking, thunder
Those writers
Whose eyes bleed tears
That never stop
Tears for what
They will do
Never more

-Megan M. Phillips


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