Sludge

I can't write.
I can't weave fantastic tales.
I can't create vast universes.
I can't write.
But I can bleed ink
and smear it onto a page.
My pen is my bow,
and my words the arrows
I blindly fire at the monster that is my mind
in feeble attempts to
at the very greatest
put a chink in it's thick hide
My scribbles are only to silence
the insidious
eternal
voices.
I can't write.
I can't communicate.
I can't share.
I can't write.
For my work is but the pus
that oozes from my diseased soul
I vomit it onto a page
in hopes that I've somehow alleviated
but a portion of
my ever growing infection
And then I bleed all the more
because when I read it
what once seemed so thick and so vile
when brought to light
is only fake and thin
What was once a great raven
is a simple
silly
sparrow.