They say,
write what you know.
Sadly,
as one ages,
the horror
of realisation
overcomes us.
Doubt,
creeps in.
A blighted uncertainty
and
paralysing,
obsessive distrust
of our own minds.
So,
with pen to paper
we stare,
at the blank surface.
Trying,
desperately,
to formulate words
that do not mirror
the monochromatic vision
of a world
we know
does not exist.
A stagnation
of belief,
suffocated
by our own
naive intuition.
It takes
a certain kind
of bravery,
or perhaps
wilful ignorance
to place any claim
upon parchment,
when one knows
the futility
and arrogance
of such an endeavour.
Those who dare
to imbue
thought into words,
merely regurgitate
a flawed,
base reconstruction
of reality.
Pedlars of lies
and half truths.
To truly write
what we know,
would result
in nothing
but
transcriptions
of disconnected,
momentary illusion.
A kind of contradictory,
fervent insanity.
As unintelligible
as the world.
Only madmen,
truly write.
Opaque scrawls,
impenetrable,
haphazard
and
discordant.
Dissonant hymn’s
reverberating
in the void.
Incoherent echoes,
the obscene howl
of hysteria.