The Dark Voice

Writing is a quiet voice that kills and devours humanity.

Its hunts the strong and empowers the weak.

It gives freedom to the rebels, and a sanctuary to the devil.

Writing is the force that breaks through the walls of time, and the chambers of the heart. Writing is the foundation of the soul and a weapon of the mind.

Writing is my eternal companion and greatest ribald.

He exists to destroy me, and I to make him live.

He fills himself with hurtful words that slowly destroy.

He pretends to be objective, yet he condemns my soul to the darkness

of a land, that I have never known nor will never reside.

He pretends to be deaf, to not hear my demands.

He pretends to be my friend, yet he stabs me in the back.

He pretends to be impartial, yet those who made him are corrupt.

 He pretends to be in time, yet he is always late in darkness.

He pretends; he pretends to be the things that I can’t be,

 to see the things that I can’t see,

to hear the things that I can’t hear.

He, Writing is my greatest joy and weakness.

 When I am happy he lacks sympathy. When I am sad he overtakes my steps.

He covers my weakness with evilness and makes a mask

out of my sorrow. A mask able to portray his greatness.

No one comes to him if it’s not through me.

And no one comes to me if it’s not through him.  

Writing and I seem to posses what the other lacks.

We are part of a greater plan.

He frees my soul from this corrupt world.

He gives me love, freedom, justice, and peace.

He seal my demons and I let him live.