(no subject)

[blacktears09]

exhaustion fills
like cheap wine
straight from the
bottle, dizzyingly
awful with the
sinking knowledge
that the headache
you'll have
tomorrow morning
can only be
surpassed by
the two-hour
crying jag that
your eyes will
endure on the drive
back to your
empty hotel room
in yet another
empty city, the
only company
being the bible
in the drawer
(which you always
write all over
anyways).

you're always
tired, oh so tired,
these days.

what has you
weighed down,
my love?
the secrets have
been thriving far
too long to just
begin festering
at this hour.
you aren't sick,
look at you,
the perfect
picture of physical
health, if not
that of the
same in
the mental
standpoint.

maybe it's that
you can't tell anyone
that the words have
stopped coming,
what once had
come without strain
now forced to agony,
the screeching of
verbal fingernails
along criticism's
full-wall blackboard.

you know your
talent has betrayed you.

that wonder of
twelve years of age,
of porcelain,
crimson,
kisses,
friends with sharp teeth,
has become your nemesis.
you can't escape what
once was and threatens
you again.

sit at that table again.
the words won't come.
you would write with the
quill digging the words
into the back of your hand
(for you shan't lie anymore)
if only it would make those
evading words come home.

but this is no fairytale,
and you've nothing
left to help you here.