[x]the end.

the words - they come and go as they please
it's not something i ever have control over
keeping me up some nights, not letting me sleep
not until i give them the form they desire
sometimes i let the exhaustion win
only to feel as though my genius was left to dreams
so now i try to get every last word
because my night writing is to hope as my days are to despair
so much as a letter escapes me when i go chasing them
and thus luckily i cannot force myself to write
it's a good thing too when i cannot find the words
because i am the harshest critic of their authenticity
i write simply because i have to 
the only want involved is to purge and give this away
time doesn't heal all wounds 
you just get used to bearing the scars
the shadow is something i will never escape
and i have come to terms with that
there are days where i could almost feel myself dying
until i remind myself that life is for the living
out of pain i scribe in spite of the four
within my soul i can feel pestilence, war, famine and my old friend
though it remains to be seen what the pale horse will claim first
the end of my life or the end of my words?
truly - I do not fear you, my old friend
only never being heard, or never being found
being as self aware and as human as they come
I i know the only immortal part of me can be voice
there are things that i know in my temerity
the last thing a every poet pulls from the well 
is an empty bucket
so i have to wonder - how finite is my expression?
one way or another, someday I will be gone
someday who i am will be forgotten
yet if my my poetry is ever over
someone please remember - to turn on the lights

...so i can find my way to the end

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