My ballad is a show, a dramatic play,
an episode of intrigue.
Oh Divinity of life,
why have I been plagued with this curse?
Words are my outlet, yet they are my shackle;
I’m bound to an obligation to write.
It is as if my soul has been sold and commanded to do such a task.
Only the negative has flowed from this hand, only sadness,
sorrow, despair, frustration has left this pointed dagger.
To vent my darkness onto a lined canvas is how I express feelings of depth.
But, the question is,
why is it that positivity cannot flow freely from the depths of my subconscious?
My concepts and beliefs about true love, peace, joy,
happiness remain locked away like a treasure
as if guarded by some strange and hidden glutton.
It is as though I walk around in costume,
playing the part of happiness.
My positivity expends itself into the world
leaving me with this darkness that leads me to write.
What do I do?
Do I continue to live as a hopeless romantic,
keeping my priority to the Divine Mockery of Words;
or do I lock away this illness, this safety net and hope for the best?
My mind cannot fathom nor my heart
tell of the darkness that creeps behind my wall.
Being punished for a sin long forgotten.
To write is to hold up the sky.
To write is to bleed, to cleanse.
To quit, well, to quit is to die.
~Daniel Ryan Repholz