And humble hours made poor what once was rich,
Such hunger never killed a man so kind,
When, in his veins, my ink ran black as pitch.
O, tell me, poet, what must you create
To satisfy the demon in your eye?
What artwork can my ghostly hunger sate,
And does that artwork here draw slowly nigh?
Although for hours, you work with no respite,
For not one moment has your write-hand slowed.
When, like a bird, this feather doth take flight
Across the page your words like water flowed.
It may not seem like you have dearly bled,
But, mark my words, my ink will stain you red.
O, help me, Lord—or whoe'er else may hear—my very mind is slipping through my fingers like the sand that cascades within my hourglass, mercy me! The hours flow without end, without respite, yet I myself feel as though no time has passed. For how long must I stand in this stupor? For how long must I work until this plentiful fountain of accursed inspiration runs dry and lets me rest my weary eyes? And for how long with this abhorrent satiation of appetite last? I am unearthly, o Lord! I am of this world no more! No man, nor beast who took the names of men, should feel such lack of primal emptiness, such absent hunger, when sustenance is gained through words and prose alone!
I curse the tool within my grasp!
I curse the fool who sold it!
I curse the pool beneath the clasp;
The ink- and page that holds it!
I crave neither food nor water, neither sleep nor the relief it provides, neither escape nor the prison in which the walls are pitch-dark ink and the lock is drawn to my own design! Wherein lies the key, o twisted machinations? Wherein lies my freedom? I long for the will to leave, for this will to leave me be! Yet, with each stroke of the pen, each glyph etched shakily onto the parchment, I stumble and fall one step below, spiralling down, down, down, a descent which I control yet cannot stop! What awaits me at the bottom, o monstrous quill of mine? What lurks in the shadows of your pigment, driving itself through my veins like the very blood that ceased to flow within? Even the most potent of opium is like burning tea leaves compared to the trance you draw upon me!
Alas, my desperate pleas shall not be heard by any one soul, for I made it so that they cannot hear. Surely, to be dragged from this waking dream into the harsh light of reality would be to cast aside all I have worked for- in my life and, verily, my slow and present demise! Through my own pride and foolishness, I have locked myself away and, for my last meal before imminent execution, requested the key to my freedom on a silver platter which I can only devour.
Do not weep for me, I pray, for which ever soul happens upon this accursed body. You mourn a man no more, but the demiurge of his own boundless purgatory- so hollow, so hollow, damn it all!