Written In Anger

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It's not enough

but i have grown older and you have grown colder and nothing is very much fun anymore

just let me try and i will be good to you just let me try and i will be there for you

and you give yourself away
and you give and you give and you give
It's a thankless job – "good writer's instinctively know they're good, why should they complain, not getting 50 C&Cs" – god even the terminology's sinking in . . . visit gw-fan / gw-oz you'll see. . .

dead eyes, dead eyes
the endless drag of another day. . .
I hate Hanson . . . give and give and give and less than a blink-and-you'll-miss-it scrutiny; "at least it's interesting" – the critic's kiss of death. Never enough is it? Give and give and it's never enough, eaten, digested, donated to the National Trust, it's just never enough.

and i can feel one of my turns coming on
So good to write free fall – any words that come to mind, never mind sentences, sentences suck. Too structured, where's the freedom?

I don't hate Hanson. I hate myself.

Four months – or three years, whichever came first. Pages on pages, give me a pen, can I write you Lily? No, pushed aside for hands for feet for years. Another endless day dazed before a screen. Why o why can't the dogs come inside. . .

I'm lonely.

". . .very depressing, but there's a beauty in just being sad, I think there's a beautiful truth in that . . . just chipping away at the honesty"
does anyone speak with punctuation?
"I'm sorry sir, but that was really embarrassing"
Grow a fucking skin Tessa, tears won't get you anywhere in a world of machines and stone. Bash your head against a glass wall and I'll show you tears Miss Fucking Perfect.
You're everything I want to be – carry the weight on your hips with a beauty I'd kill for. Leave me my words – don't take my words from me.

despite all my rage
to spite all my rage
I hate. I hate hating. Give me something of worth to claim as my own. Give me my words, you stole them from me! I want them back, and the steak knives and the empty promises – the garbage compactor'll be full tonight – this morning when not even the dog is crying. "Not even God would be up this late"

It's 1am
The alarm's for 6:30 – more time for Tara. To play and lick my nose and spring up the stairs. She's too gorgeous for words. She's not crying. I thought she would be.

it's fucking wonderful they sold you out
I never cared before. Ignorance is bliss, give me back my three years of age, when it was alright to live in one's head. The family sits with Tom from Texas who buys video games for six bucks – I sit with dead legs and Tara – talking, to her or myself I'll never know. ›400 in one week is nothing. I want to care. I don't.

i forget to forget nothing
is important. Holding back the fool again. He wears a coxcomb and leather pants, a foppish grin and a platinum braid. I wish he was real. Descartes was a drunken fart and a great one for wishful thinking. Give me my dreams (give and give and give) they're all I have left – giving me a life outside the horrid shell I call my own.
No-one can love a writer – their whole life contained by the Word. Worship with ink and wood pulp – 17 trees to one tonne of paper – buy recycled plantation paper and give the earth a chance. Where does ink come from?
Slaves – give me my freedom. Leave me no concern but the pen in my hand – "you always said you'd marry a rich man", cut off the logs, give me legs, maybe I'll have a shot. At least a wheelchair would give me an excuse.

wouldn't it be nice if could melt myself like ice
outrun my skin and just be pure wind
Wind doesn't leak, it sings. My eyes are dry. I can't cry – too much effort to summon a storm. Swallow it down (what a jagged little pill), hide behind the mask, let the hair down over the eyes. Play hide and seek, E hides, Y runs away to play with big guns – nice big shots that miss the mark by metres

And you wonder why you aren't happy.

Someone has to die. In layers of red tape and incompetance, someone has to die before the ice is cracked, before the bureau has to call a committee to oversee a team to conduct an investigation that envelopes and bean counters will skewer to the fence. Hopefully it'll be my life to play catalyst, taken or left to fend – authors and martyrs, no-one cares till they're dead. There's no sweeter revenge than fate – usually it comes too late. Torture a back, ravage a soul, remember the handiwork when passing the cross, hail a few Marys to calm the qualms.

It's a thankless job.       but someone has to do it.

I need chocolate – and a scalpel.

Just another way to ignore the ache.

and you give and you give
I don't hate Hanson.

and you give yourself away
i can't live
I hate hate

with or without you
A dream is a static thing, and there's the comfort
There will be no cottages for you Emily. You will be dead in twenty years, dead as the train leaves for Putney, the bus for Torquay and the race for anger.
I am dying of life Heathcliff

Love me someone. Anyone. I don't want to be empty anymore.

i'll show you why you're so much more
than good enough. . . .
A cry for help? You ought to be ashamed
The smile's slipping and I can't stop it
You beat the pills
I NEED THEM
Smile
It's slipping. . . .
Pull it up and walk

Morpheus leave my sight. Hypnos grant me passage – there's warmth to be found in delusions. More than this cold of greed and fucking words.

Give me back my words . . . they're my excuse. . . .

in trutina mentis dubia


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