Haunted by a plague of deathly ideas, writing so deep nothing could penetrate it. Ideas spill from my mind, consisting of the horrors written by only the best; Stein, Poe, and King. All masters of writing. Men who knew nothing more than the gruesome details and jaw dropping phrases of an enticing piece of art work.

Perched on the edge of my seat, ideas whirling through my clogged mind, and my vein-filled hand moving at a dangerous speed. Every idea sparks a fire of new thoughts. I'm quickly hypnotized into a muddy trance of utter concentration. Positioned in a dark place, where even the creatures of Hell wouldn't dare lurk; I sit. Quiet looms around me, no chaos; only silence. Except, for the swift brush of my pen on the paper. Eventually, I place the cold metal of an ear bud gently into my ears. Still writing without chaos, the harsh words of a troubled song writer blare throughout my skull.
Whether it makes sense or not, my hallow words engrave themselves onto my paper. Leaving slight ink smudges from my speeding hand. Not allowing each word enough time to dry. No eraser marks or whiteouts. Every description, and every detail have the utmost importance.
Consisting of mostly Gothic poems, my writing is not in vein. Its struggles about "her", and what "she's" conquered. Bone chilling truth, and dark, curdled words. The poems smear into a lifelong story. All filled with menacing emotion, horrid tales, and pain stricken memories. The puzzles of my life emerge from darkness, and form lengthy, yet detailed poetry. Each word meticulously placed, and overtly thought of.
Inspiration not only from the great men of mystery and horror, but also from the crazed mad men of today. The convicts, the killers, the hoodlums, and the bums. Each bring inspiration no matter what they've done. Their personalities, their tough times of trail, and blatant life choices all create an indigenous masterpiece of depth from which the soul can embrace. Using it to create something more than just writing, something deeper. Something that no scholar can give definition to.
I don't plan or map out what it is I'm going to write. That's not what writing is about. It's the foggy thoughts that come out clean, and the creative use of newly discovered words and images. It's being lost in time, not realizing how much you've written or how long you've been thinking. But a world all its own.

As I descend deeper down my cluttered page, I add the final touches. The ending that says it all. I sum up my decayed thoughts, growing weary of writing. As I gently lie down my pen, I read through my newly acquired artwork. Not noticing errors, but discovering places where I can embed more ink onto my now smudged and dirty paper.