the anguish

I am a writer bereft of words

a barren mother, empty womb -

no eggs'

i am the dormant disease

a festering wound that itches

eaten alive by past experiences

coursing through my veins

devouring to day's presence with tomorrows angst

i feel the puss stealthily moving

like the clock of the womb i carry

that consumed my children

so that they were never born

i am... the grieving lioness

who pounces with vigor at the prey

not so much from hunger or anger

but to fend away all archaic slights

i am the villain of my own story

the one who stumps at the root of joy

so that i can feel the rush

as the baby dies inside, i am a killer of dreams

the one who turns off the light

just as the godly idea sprouts

and often wonder, "who will even care?"

I am wanderer with out a compass

i see the canvas, yet fail to paint in bright colors

i am the problem that compromises the solution

so that the world today

looks exactly like it did yesterday

i am an enemy of progress

an overzealous aggrandizer of the past,

i am the history, and the heritage

through words i am passed on

from generation to the next without question

i am without morals, the morass that keeps you here

i am you...