Hell

  My Hell is having so much to write but not getting it out in time. This screws me over. I cant write them down before they burn in this Hell. The ashes of  unwritten stories, poems, arguments, posts, and ideas surround my feet. My skin black with soot. I am now unrecognizable. The people that knew me see me through a different looking glass. This looking glass is dirty itself and miss shapes the already deformed. Hell is the opinions I have of myself. Hell is that fact that I can leave when I want yet never do. Seeing the way out daily makes me have a need to leave. But I know this is where the refining fires of Hell dwell. My deepest works come from here. This pit where eyes only adjust when there is fuel for fire.

  I do get gifts from above; fire proof paper, moments of pure clarity, a shower of hope so people can see me again. At these times I want to leave. But it is seems too easy. As if Hell has forgotten me for awhile. I then realize that I am not steering my ship that was going towards freedom. It is a heat wave from Hell that shoves me back, almost capsizing me, into the unknown. Hell is the fact that I am in a ship when there is a bridge. A bridge that goes over the seas of the unknown and to the way out. I stopped trying to get out of Hell and not of the reason you think.

I got out and got bored of heaven and came back to Hell.