The Last of the Flames

my pen is dry, rusted,

formerly fueld by pain,

but now,

the skeletons

of my demons,

lay black against the page.

spelling out the ending

of my once and former rage.

loneliness is dry

and no longer salivates,

and I'm searching for an ending

that let's me recreate.

writers block

is a bitch

when agony fades

into peace.

and the last of my hauntings,

like char,

and stretched thin into letters,

and painted on nothing

except this imaginary page.

and if my scars are like braille

they will spell words of hope

and I will finally remember

how to read them.

and I will be grateful.

and I will learn to put

flame to page once more,

and save the paper with moisture

not made of tears.

but ink.

#onefortheflames