The Montease

Ink as it soaks into my pen

And drips down onto my page

I count in my head to ten

Hoping that I will finish the next stage

Listening to the clock

As the hour strikes ten

I hear the night birds squawk

And wonder when I will have to write again

 As I scribble and write in pain

These words onto this paper

I feel my own life drain

Like the soil beneath a caper

The words soaking my life essence

As they flow onto the page

The phrases joining in coalescence

As my entire self withers with age

For if not another stage

I shall need to continue next

I shall need to write another page

Of something even more complex

With the flex of my wrist

And the end of another statement

I wince as my tendons twist

And cry out and lament

For I wish not I had chosen

To take that man’s offer

After removing seeds, in time, frozen

From an old, wooden coffer

“Take from me these seeds

and plant them in your garden

Remove the fruit when they shine like beads

And the shells darken and harden

“Take the fruit from the plant

And crush the fruit and seed

For the ink it forms shall grant

You all the ink you will ever need.”

And so I did as I was told

I grew the plants from the seed

As soon as the ink was made, I was sold

I had all the ink I would ever need

I was told legends of this ink

That it would bring inspiration and wit

But now, I am beginning to think

That this ink will not allow me to quit

Since I have sat at my desk

I have been unable to move

As I labor on, my pain now grotesque

And have been unable to leave this groove

I feel trapped within this space

As I write more words onto this page

The ink in my mind forms a hideous face

And has me locked within a cage

The monster that is the muse

Has taken ahold of me

With its steel grip, I doubt it shall refuse

To set me free

The Montease is what it calls itself

Demanding I write more on each page

As it reaches for more pens from my shelf

To write out another stage.

Another scene, another set,

My quest to seek the ink for this page

Has filled me with regret

But I must write, less I fill the Montease with rage

The Montease is a beast that resides within

Within the darkest corner is where it resides

As it grasps at your pen and grasps at your skin

It blurs the line that fiction and reality divides

The Montease cannot be contained

Its hunger is insatiable

My words are bloodstained

Its grasp is inescapable

My muse, my projection, is now inescapable

My cries for help are silent

My words are unattainable

For my death shall be soon and it shall be violent

My quest for inspiration has left me in desperation

The Montease demands from me forever more

My mind and body call for death with flirtation

My hands capable of writing nevermore