The Writer's Monologue

A Poem by Alis Quinn

Anxiety beats in my chest like a steel drum, devours my thoughts like a maddened butterfly. . . . roaming the recesses of my mind. My mind, warped, like a guitar left in the sun way too long. . . . My brother's and mine blended into one.

Writers and vampires. . . . forever damned to roam the streets of human existence, while society's consciousness sleeps on. We suck the soul out of those that know not how to use it �" just to feel it on our own. Forever temporary. Forever alone.

A soul, damned for all its eternity. Up then down like a stupid yo-yo. In then out �" barely brushing �" then plunging deep into another's life. . . . never our own.

Maddened by unexplainable thoughts, tormented by unnecessary fears. . . . Masochistic to the bone.

The demons which plague, never leave well enough alone. Imprisoned by madness, not necessarily our own.

Focus. "You are swimming freely, now." But, no, just drowning in a sea of stimuli. The writer, the vampire so caught up in it all. Drowning in narcissism �" plagued with obsessive self-pleasure to the point of intoxication. Damaging for he with no self-control.

"Harness your feeling aspect." Maintain vampire detachment. Feel without feeling, see without seeing, hear without hearing what is really going on. Trying to regain your mortality, just to belong.

It is a gift. "Cherish it." They chant hypnotically in my ear. Utilize that which you have. . . . make your magic grow!

Living 'til the end of time writer/vampire hand in hand. For all eternity: Damned!

Insane Scribblings of Madness

It is something that courses through your veins. It is that which gleams through your eyes. You are the one that must learn to harness it, least you die!

What is madness. From whence doth it come?

Reddened from the sun, burnt by the sky. Two children tormented, til the day they die! My brother and I. Understanding his madness, cursed am I. Partly freed from my own. Only to relive the torment of which he cries. Leave it alone. Get on with your life. He, too, is cursed not to live until he really tries!

Lady Die

cracks on ceilings

shadows on walls

"the madness

is within us all!"

"So you're leaving?"

says he

with an evil gleam

to his eye

not now

not ever

"you are mine"

Let me help"

find the voice of madness

not reason

"It is you

and I!"

Lady Die.

Inescapable fear. Unexplainable panic. Hurry, run. Avoid that which threatens to choke you, bruise you, beat you, bleed you, making you slowly and silently die!

Alone on my journey. Sheltered by a darkened sky. Except for the sound of my footsteps. . . . all alone am I.

Anxiety beats like a steel drum in my chest. Maddened butterflies fly creating chaos and mayhem. Tricked by fate, it escapes �" the beating of the drum, the butterflies stomping on my soul �" it escapes through my pen �" becoming ink on a tear-stained page!

There is no beach. All that is left is miles of ocean. Shades of green exist no more in this watery wonderland. The blue hue of the sky reflects. They are one.

I am depressed. Depressed of all feelings. I am numb. Numbed by the cold winter wind. . . . straight to the heart. The white froth of the rabid ocean has devoured sand and shell, leaving nothing but sea spray pounding at the wall. Chunks of stone crumble into the sea. The steps of the sea ladder have eroded, leaving rusty ashes in its stead.

The icy bite of winter has imprisoned me. Wrapped in blankets, clad in layers of clothing. Nothing of the outside world exists. It is all icicles. Smoking one cigarette after another warms nothing, but my frenzied thoughts. . . . endless hours of agonizing headaches.

Something is out there, amidst the waves. Breakwater kisses the soft of my thigh. Peeking between crests. . . . a game of hide and seek. A shell, seaweed, maybe a small sea turtle. Nevertheless, sucked under by the riptide. Drowned in Lithium, only to resurface a few months down the shore, shining bright and cracked a little deeper.

I am not sad. I am not tired. I am just not. My soul hibernates til the frost of winter and the water's edge recedes. Until then, I am just naught what I should be.

Warmth of sunlight tickles my skin. Teasing me. Teasing me to disrobe . Opening my legs, teased by the warmth. The soft of my thigh drinks. A stirring of my soul, deep within. . . . wakens to the calling. A cloud, a building, or maybe another person blocks the light, leaving. Just leaving nothing. Behind.

Seven birds huddled in the oats. Huddled for warmth.

"Fly south for the winter, " they are told.

They did. They are. They huddle for warmth.

The feelings in me sleep, the writer awakens. Watching, learning, writing. Disconnected from feelings that sleep through winter's breath.

My freckles, they too sleep. They sleep through the winter. They sleep on into the New Year. They begin to weakly poke through - in February, sometime - blinded shortly.

"Bright light. Bright Light!" they call, rushing to sit on the surface and watch it all.

Happen.

The writer in me sleeps through the summer. Drugged by feelings, running rampant. Leaving footprints on my soul. They tell their stories to the writer. Now wakened by winter's icy breath. The writer's pen sings. Sings the ballads of the summer months. The ballads of past battles . . . . won and lost.