In My Writers Mind

 

Corpses crawl out of their graves

Muddy soil stuck to their decaying clothing

 

Asylum windows

Reveal shadows of ghosts

The twisted wreckage of their lives

Seen in their eyes

Windows to worlds with horrors untold

 

Twisted killers dig muddy graves

In the mist

As headlights illuminate the night

Their victims

Waiting to be hidden forever

Families never knowing why or where

 

Sometimes as I fish

I float alone in my boat

Night envelops me

I let my mind wander to all of the horror movies that I’ve seen

The black inky water

Hides horrors beyond the normal imagination

I encourage the fear

Until it’s almost panic

Then I wish it away

But for the rest of the night

It’s always just beyond the borders of my consciousness

Waiting to pounce

At the slightest sound

The fear takes me back home to my childhood

It’s horrible and comforting at the same time.

 

All of these things wait within the walls of my mind

Screaming to get out

But I’m afraid to write them now

Because people with limited minds

And an even more limited education in psychological matters

Want to use my words against me

 

Their own confusion about right and wrong

Clouds their judgment

Unable to let themselves accept that they may have made a mistake

They fight hard to discredit

The ones who weren’t even involved

 

If they would only stand up and say

I did it

I made a mistake

It would be such a great step forward

And they might just regain some of the respect they lost

in the eyes of the children

 

Children see everything

 

EVERYTHING

 

Their minds are like little sponges

 

They need role models that have integrity

Not role models that teach them to cover up their mistakes

And hide them from the world.

 

I miss writing

To write and to not put it out to the world is fruitless

To put it out to the world

Risks it being used against us

By shallow minds

That would rather blame others for their own shortcomings.