The Method To My Madness

The better writer that I have become, the less that I have slept. The more self-aware that I have become, the more that I have wept. It takes a certain type of sickening obsession to delve into my inner most pain and passion every day. It takes a lunatic to visit this subject and imagine it in every single way. My past haunts me, it's former glory a ghoul in my mind. It whispers sultry tales in my ear, the tellings of a once glorious time. The pale echo of long ago spurs me forward, a flame eternal, an endless breath, a place from which I can not fully fast forward.  Every one of my defenses have been lowered, the guards at my gates stand battered. Only a shattered man trying to tell a tale that to him once mattered. In its telling hope springs anew, for in the story, I can release all worry and finally, and fully, let go, of you.

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