I started a poem. I didn’t mean to do it.
And it started out like too many of them have. Do.
I thought maybe I was done, but I can’t get away. I’ll never get away.
Now I cannot sleep until I hammer out some more of it, and I don’t want to.
I can be subjected to monsters. I can be a monster. I AM a monster. I can hear demons summoned. I can fall sick. I can travel to hell and return.
But…really? Must I be drowned now?
This is foolishness.
Sometimes I have little scenes in my mind, where I come to you as my Wolf, and you don’t know me.
I throw down pages and pages and tell you I didn’t mean to and I didn’t want to, but I wrote them for you.
And you don’t know me.