The Writer's Hand

Disclaimer: my writings are going to have very dark undertones and dark meanings. A conceit explaining how one grows tired of trying after a while and finally gives in to the darkness.

The writer's hand grows heavier

Every stroke, every letter, becomes fainter

The paper more rumpled with every passing day from past attempts.

Attempts to write the narrative away

To channel emotions into some sense of logic

Trying to figure out how to cope.

One day the paper is left unfinished

Mid-sentence, the words bleed into gray

The words becoming scribbles

The meaning becoming clearer as the madness screams in its prominence.

The writer's hand is idling.

The writer's hand grew colder, grew older, grew heavy

The lips sealed shut, the smile faded slowly

The last tear fell from the eye that blinked slower with each passing minute

A final sigh from the lungs that drew slower, raspier breaths.

Then silence.

The heavy heart stopped beating, the pain finally dispersing

The pen falling to the floor as silently as the last breath leaving the vacated body.

Then silence.

The writer's hand no longer writes.

The pen sits unused, collecting dust

Words left unfinished, feelings left unexplained

Voices no longer heard, stories no longer told.

The writer's hand no longer writes.

Author's Note

Pardon the poem, this is my first time writing in years, I just wanted to give it a go to try to cope. I always loved writing in conceits and tongues to write about what's really going through my mind instead of stating it directly, so here it is.