The Sick Writer.

I remember him well:
Sick of walking around,
accompanied by a dozen voices
-inside.

Sick of laying in an unmade bed,
in a dirty vest
-alone.

Sick of watching them walk away
as he held his head in one hand,
steadying his nerves with whatever
was in the other.

He was sick of their sights,
their conversations
and their gestures.
Their hands and feet
sickened him also.

Even the ones he liked to watch;
The ones he undressed
behind a quizzical brow:
They all eventually made him sick.

One day he reached the conclusion:
It is not them that sickened him,
but the relationship between them and himself.
It was he who made himself sick.

The moments of sipping wine
whilst drinking a sentence.
Smoking a cigarette to find a new way
to define it all.
It had taken his aching soul
and placed it on a pedestal
even higher than God himself.

But, that was gone.
They were no quick fixes,
no easy escape routes.
He had run out of words
and with them, life.

If he had only known
how good he was,
he may have been able to deal
with every song that should have never been sung,
and every desperate glare that said too much.

'If only I had remembered to change the bedsheets.'