The Creator

Over yonder, the creator ponders his very existence... Inauspicious despite the gloom of life looming down atop his very soul... He contemplates sanity after finding nothing left as he turned right... Finding nothing left as he turned right... Finding nothing left as he turned to write... Something wrong... With... Psyche... might be... slightly... Insane... His pen no longer bleeds, so in turn he's... In pain... Miscarried thoughts lay still-born in the distance of his cerebrum... Wrapping at his soul's chamber door... Begging to be heard, But instead they're only felt. Like love... he longed to define it... But couldn't... Too pedantic with the congestion of conjecture... Like the lessons of a lecture spoken by spurious professor... His profession was to profess the truth that others failed to articulate... Yet he couldn't seem to profess the truth about himself... Never a fiction writer were he, even if it appeared realistic to the untrained Iris... Yet at times our truths are just as difficult to express as a lie is... So in turn his page is silenced. Like the dialect of kindness amidst the fires of Hades... As cryptic and subliminal as papyrus scroll paintings, was his understanding of his own demise... The frustration of mediocrity that his ego once denied had overwhelmed him... Created in His image, but far from pseudonym, For He created the earth and it's inhabitants in a mere 7 days... While he's been writing for 7 whole hours, with merely 7 words on his page... For what he failed to realize was that he wasn't in fact The Creator... Instead mere creation the creator creates... He was once a conduit for the music of the heavens above, Until his crescendo's fall from grace... That night of the poets death... Lofty was his ego, And so too was hades fire, For his words were never in fact his own, The Creator was his ghostwriter...