These Demons

I can't write.

That's it.

I'm done.

I refuse to make a fool out of myself longer than I have to. This will be the last time you read anything that my hands are capable of producing, from what my mind is capable of creating; the last time your eyes will lay upon the vomit of my soul. For eternity, they told me to write. Write my thoughts — good, bad, even confusing. Write down what my heart couldn't scream to the heavens — because a mouth was absent — or what my own mouth couldn't release to those who choose to read. “Express yourself,” they said...the psychiatrists said it, too. Pills told me the same thing, and so did my noose. They tried to make me better, I guess; stay by my side, at least. Though, they haunted my subconscious. And that can't be good.

They told me to wait, “But don't give it too much thought”. They told me to dream, “But don't dream a dream too vast, now”. They told me to stay, not run. But I only have one thing to say to them, and to those of you who choose to read:

I can't write.

That's it.

I'm done.