The Montease

Ink as it soaks into my pen
And drips down onto my page
I count in my head to ten
Hoping that I will finish the next stage
Listening to the clock
As the hour strikes ten
I hear the night birds squawk
And wonder when I will have to write again

 As I scribble and write in pain
These words onto this paper
I feel my own life drain
Like the soil beneath a caper
The words soaking my life essence
As they flow onto the page
The phrases joining in coalescence
As my entire self withers with age

For if not another stage
I shall need to continue next
I shall need to write another page
Of something even more complex
With the flex of my wrist
And the end of another statement
I wince as my tendons twist
And cry out and lament

For I wish not I had chosen
To take that man’s offer
After removing seeds, in time, frozen
From an old, wooden coffer
“Take from me these seeds
and plant them in your garden
Remove the fruit when they shine like beads
And the shells darken and harden

“Take the fruit from the plant
And crush the fruit and seed
For the ink it forms shall grant
You all the ink you will ever need.”
And so I did as I was told
I grew the plants from the seed
As soon as the ink was made, I was sold
I had all the ink I would ever need

I was told legends of this ink
That it would bring inspiration and wit
But now, I am beginning to think
That this ink will not allow me to quit
Since I have sat at my desk
I have been unable to move
As I labor on, my pain now grotesque
And have been unable to leave this groove

I feel trapped within this space
As I write more words onto this page
The ink in my mind forms a hideous face
And has me locked within a cage
The monster that is the muse
Has taken ahold of me
With its steel grip, I doubt it shall refuse
To set me free

The Montease is what it calls itself
Demanding I write more on each page
As it reaches for more pens from my shelf
To write out another stage.
Another scene, another set,
My quest to seek the ink for this page
Has filled me with regret
But I must write, less I fill the Montease with rage

The Montease is a beast that resides within
Within the darkest corner is where it resides
As it grasps at your pen and grasps at your skin
It blurs the line that fiction and reality divides
The Montease cannot be contained
Its hunger is insatiable
My words are bloodstained
Its grasp is inescapable

My muse, my projection, is now inescapable
My cries for help are silent
My words are unattainable
For my death shall be soon and it shall be violent
My quest for inspiration has left me in desperation
The Montease demands from me forever more
My mind and body call for death with flirtation
My hands capable of writing nevermore


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