Words to Die By
I lay my head on my journal like a pillow so that I can rest on my thoughts.
They are comforting when they are supporting my head and not destroying it from within.
The smell of ink is intoxicating,
creating a thoughtful depressed stupor.
The blue is imprinted on my eyelids,
showing me the world in writing when I close my eyes to my surroundings.
The tracks which my pen stamps into the paper,
which is not permanent in the physical state,
the ashes becoming sprinkles of memory on my brain.
God leaves little messages in the brain,
in the form of little worms you don’t notice until the tunnels collapse.
I don’t mind the little worms eating away at my mind,
because the company of loneliness is much too loud to bear.
This is why life is a story,
my account sketching each detail in the book I will be buried with,
wrapped up in the thread that I have spun my whole life,
which when finally snagged,
trips me into a cozy coffin,
where the darkness is perfect light to read the story of my life by.