Touching the void

Like most writers,

He saw it's blankness,

Like an artists canvas,

It spoke to him,

But it was more of a taunt,

Almost as if it wants to start and argument with him,

Constantly bringing up his past failures,

Even stuff that is irrelevant,

Not even related to his writing,

Losing his job,

His failed marriage,

Losing his kids,

In fact everything he had,

And now what has he left to reflect on,

A poor diet, High cholesterol, Diabities,

A total lack of motivation,

To exercise, to eat healthly,

To embrace beautiful days,

Leave the darkness of the home,

And walk within the sun's warming rays,

All the stuff his friends talk about, who jog and go to the gym, diet and feel better,

Yet still their stories of benefit, did nothing to wow him into submission,

so that leaves him in the here and now,

A dark dull one bedroom apartment,

on the sleazy side of town,

A suitcase is his wardrobe,

Empty pizza boxes and beer cans his rooms décor,

A freezer with 2 frozen dinners and a fridge with multiple science experiments photosynthesising away in 50 shades of green,

So is this it,

This is what its come to,

His life is a massive pile of shit, with nothing to show for it,

And still this white void staring back at him,

Throwing all this failure at him,

Or is he staring at a mirror?

Is he relecting all the crap he has seen and its now being thrown back at him,

All these years no-one has understood him,

Understand where he was coming from,

Thinking he was in a dead end job, a loveless marriage,

Kids no longer kids; grown adults with their own hopes and dreams,

Is this what its come too?,

Day after day wallowing in the same depressive state,

thinking the same thoughts over and over again,

Watching this irritating cursor blink,

Like he is at the traffic lights for and extendent length of time,

waiting for it to change green and it never does,

His laptop is old and dodgy,

Missing one control key but he still has the other,

One broke off during the seperation,

Maybe its an omen,

A loss of half of his life's control,

The escape key isnt looking good either,

Or maybe it is living up to its name sake and wants to make a clear get away from this loser,

It's a hard slap in the face to take stock of your life,

When you weigh up the haves and the have nots,

And then the voices of reason start, "At least you have your health"....oh sorry I forgot,

He thinks back to his school days, good times,

Back when his stories came thick and fast,

Fantastical adventures or whimsical characters off on amazing adventures,

What was his characters name?

A knight … Sir write a lot....that's it,

pointless silly stories to amuse himself and his friends,

Is that the answer?

Has he forgot who he is really writing for?

Forget the publishers requests,

And what are current fads,

Maybe instead of going forward maybe he needs to go back,

To go back to the simplier times, where character A went to location B and potted C, and ended up doing d E F and the end, Does it need to be focussed to an adult?,

Childrens books are fun and enlightening,

The characters are far more cartoon like and can fly on broomsticks, have mystical powers and go on crazy and dangerous exciting missions,

Yes this is the motovation he needed,

That kick up the ass,

But still even with these amazing ideas he still gazes at the screen with more excitement but something still isnt right,

Write....write yes when he was young he wrote his stories,

With a pen and paper,

He has those; somewhere,

What more do you need?

Apart from a storyline; characters; some dialogue; a plot; a beginning; a middle and an end.

But apart from all of that he becomes refreshed and eager to start,

Pen in hand; paper at ready,

"And once again we meet again lord void, But this time I have brought my pen and it is far more mightier than any sword,

And I will strike you down with many thrusts of my blade,

Your body will wearing my marks,

and know this, the child within me has a mind full of crazy and plot twisting ideas,

And the adult within me will weave such thoughts into a myriad of fanciful words and an engrossing tale of adventure that even the youngest child will want to hear over and over again,

I may not beable to repair the damage ive done to my own family and life,

But I can ensure that now I have returned to the path of righteousness,

I will fear no evil, For Sir write a lot is back,

with his pen of enchantment,

Here to fight against the hordes of white voids,

So you tell the other blank pages,

you tell them from me,

Im back and vengeance is coming with me"

He is back; the writer within me, I'm back.

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741