(untitled)

I killed my parents last night.

My sister said "Let Them Bleed".
So I ran.

Trying to get help.

Our local hero is living right next to us.

They looked at me
preparing the straight-jacked next door.

No-one believed me.
He didn’t believe me,
didn’t even listen.

As usual, I run.

This time, I run towards my fear.
They're still blocking me.
While my parents got mugged and shot,
with my sister’s eyes shining like big dollar signs.

I don't ever want to again. Ever.

Quite Beckettian

Pure Krap.
Purest of ideals I strive to perfect.
But this nagging feeling, it comes and goes.
Comes and goes.
And you're the hamm actor on a stage
Shakespeare defined centuries ago,
an act without words
that is innate, that was born with you,
born to detect a kind of
dramatic language for works
you no longer could pretend to shun.

And while you're writing in circles,
waiting in vain,
waiting for pain,
connecting with and to,
alluding to and claiming that
editing is becoming obvious
in your own plays.
Censorship is a game
you no longer pretend to finish.
Yes, it is finished.
It has come to an end.

Breathe.
Breathe, and all that falls
is the ember light.
Breathe, and the rough draft
turns into theatre.