Debt of the Writer

Permanent Link by Talon Sinnah on Tue Dec 09, 2008 1:03 pm
Debt of the Writer

As I take the time to look at a blank page
My weapon in hand makes my knuckles turn white,
With anticipation I start the line
The frustration sets in early devouring the ideas once thought good.

Another scraped page
Another’s story untold.
Another character murdered yet no one will know.
No remorse is felt at the loss

The world is made a worse place as the murderer walks free.
No mother will shed tears at the loss,
No friend will take the flowers home.
I walk the streets unscathed and no one knows,

Yet in every shadow the truth lurks.
Around every corner a conspiracy is born,
They raise their daggers to the backs
Untold attacks are executed but the defense is taken.

With every challenge faced the hero is stronger.
Every dagger thrust dodged is a chance at the light,
A light that holds the future.
But the shadows force you to turn away.

Backed against the wall forces another challenge
Does this show the beginnings of your demise
Or another dagger thrust at your side.
With sword in hand you and I trudge on.

Through blood stained pages,
Lines formed of entrails,
Hundred of cents to pay the debt to writers,
The storm rages on and the adversaries live in others
Never to cease.

I am the poet of the body and I am the poet of the Soul. The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me. The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue.

-Walt Whitman-