Exhausted Quill

Exhausted Quill

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walking the road of life, I kick up the dust

of past lives and watch as they flash before

me in wonder pausing to take a deep breath

with an exhausted soul.

 

I’ve seen the dark side and witnessed the

hardened hearts of many, who with delight

tore away the veins swelling with pride

and malice, stripping the venom from

within as I wept like a child lost in a

mother’s womb.

 

Why do I write, and why do I arrest

and hesitate to go on and keep up the

pace like others who I envy and read

as they pour their verse and rhymes

over white and taste the ink left

smudged on every page they turn?

 

Oh how my heart aches and quickens

with remorse as the shadows come

forth to haunt me and keep me at

bay, and take my words I want so

much to share with kindred spirits.

 

My demons laugh and frolic in

ghostly figures, shedding a cold and

shivering feeling over my skin as

I attempt to break free from them,

to sit at desk and catch the dimming

light of my last candle light flicker

beckoning me to come and scribe

once more and write like it was

my last.

 

Screaming and tearing at my garment

of life’s rags that wrapped around a

history so torn and mixed with feelings

of being lost I the poet laughed in

disdain for the hand dealt me and the

devil simply grinned and whispered

time is short so bleed and let the

wounds you bare be living proof of

why you are who you are a lost time

traveler moving through the universe

into another plane of long ago.

 

So my wasted life of turmoil and

strife leaves blemishes on my tortured

soul as I try my best to pull myself

from stress and depression of life’s

everyday offerings as I talk to my

muse I ask the question why should

I go on why should I write why

should I care.

 

The curtain unfolds and there he

stands in costume of royalty plumage

feathered and like the Marquis de Sade

he simply smirks at me and says

BECAUSE just because and vanishes

as quickly as he appeared.

 

I bow my head and sit bewildered,

yet fulfilled with vigor and amused

by the encouraging words, I sip my

red and dip my quill into the bowl

of blood poured from my razored

veins and write my last words good

bye my friends, I go to rest among

the poets from the past.

 

© Copyright by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved

Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore pens his thoughts about many things and has a style all his own. Sometimes, he parties with words excessively and it becomes necessary to publish quickly lest his work be lost in the dark corners of his room or his mind. Vincent will lead you into mysterious worlds that are strange yet somehow familiar, worlds that will leave you unsettled and breathless for more.

He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published.In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.
Vincent Moore

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Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore pens his thoughts about many things and has a style all his own. Sometimes, he parties with words excessively and it becomes necessary to publish quickly lest his work be lost in the dark corners of his room or his mind. Vincent will lead you into mysterious worlds that are strange yet somehow familiar, worlds that will leave you unsettled and breathless for more. He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published. In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.

6 thoughts on “Exhausted Quill

  • September 8, 2018 at 9:07 PM
    Permalink

    The greater the pain, the suffering, the more words can spill in its name, and no matter the torment, we are writers, destined to bleed upon each page, for whatever reasons. I truly understand my kindred spirit, but as I see it, just another bloom of words waiting to be plucked from eternity’s womb. Write on, regardless, spill your soul and let words be your soul to speak. Beautifully written Vincent, as always, and Poe is undoubtedly one of my all time favorites too. We relate. Take care, my friend.

    Reply
    • September 12, 2018 at 8:50 AM
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      Thank you Tony for you kindest of words. Indeed spilling one’s soul upon a page is no easy task, yet the relief one feels afterwards is rewarding. I know you can relate and I respect you for that. We are kindred spirits with the pen no doubt, each in our own world of soulful renderings. Cheers

      Reply
  • September 9, 2018 at 9:45 AM
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    Loved this Vincent. We as writers write not for those that read the words, but for ourselves – it is what brings us alive and make us live the emotional roller-coaster of life.

    Reply
    • September 12, 2018 at 8:53 AM
      Permalink

      Indeed Kurt, an emotional roller-coaster life, I’ve ridden it most of my life. The calm feels wonderful when we find it. Writing does bring us alive and able to move others with our soulful renderings, something every poet and writer hopes to achieve. I do my best by letting my Muse have it’s way with my heart and soul. Thank you for enjoying this piece, it moved me one evening to pen.

      Reply
  • September 11, 2018 at 1:21 PM
    Permalink

    I have to agree with Kurt and Tony here. We dont write words for others to justify. We definitely relate. Not all can understand the depths but to catch a glimpse into a writer’s soul is a ride itself. Like Tony said, keep bleeding and writing, we enjoy the crap out of it. Great work my friend.

    Reply
    • September 12, 2018 at 8:55 AM
      Permalink

      Ha Ha Paul, enjoying the crap out of my work is a compliment indeed. I do my best to render work that will be acceptable here for my fellow poets and writers to enjoy or simply sigh as yet another piece is scribed from this poets pen and soul. Thank you for your comment, much appreciated.

      Reply

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