The Kill

I wrote this about writing so much you have nothing left to write about.

A third person autopsy. Taking myself apart.
Glistening scalpol. the deconstruction soon to start.
I don't recognize myself. A different person.
The weight on my chest- more than a ton.

You disect each piece. Microscopic. Extracting every rhyme.
Killing me. Left with no word. No colour. Rigor mime.
Words falling more and more out of reach.
I make silence at the top of my lungs. Lack of speech.

All sorts of parts of me on the table.
I can read my insides. Spelled out like an ill-fate fable.
You pull out the organ that now starts failing.
Its pulled out broken. A heart now ailing.

My muscle expose to gristle and bone.
More and more is cut away. Progressivly gone.
I'm all over the place. Noncoherent thought.
If only this didn't happen. So much. Alot.

I try to fight back with the words I was taught.
But I'm not the strong fighter who once valiently fought.
The will to change the circumstance eludes me still.
And I, myself, is waiting. Waiting for the kill...

Author's Note

Please give an honest opinion, even if it is harsh.