Go To Part Two - Self Righteous Poems Go To Part Three - History Me
All writers are vampires. Adwood. Queen of Wands.
All writers are vampires, journalists go for your blood and poets are after your soul While novelists want to suck out the best and worst of you to use as the foundation for their golems They’ll then rule over these Frankenstein constructs like necromancers putting on a puppet show With no one to feed off of, writers will consume their own mind and generally become insane The writing is not feeding; it is the reading that really satisfies Knowing that the reader’s mind is baring its neck for the writer’s needs Is like a virgin flower waiting to get burned after first communion It is about domination and submission, pride and ego It is about existing forever in the undead state of words
Images rolling in my head like a live feed from a million movies Like a drug, like a high They separate me from my life Waking dreams so real my body is limp I worry about the addiction But I am distracted by its complete acceptance It is a world of addictions To turn them all away Would be to become something other then human Probably something less It is not the righteous world It is just the real one
In every place It is full Of people desperate By nature they are parasitic So in need to fill their empty They will take what is offered And demand more Like a right I see the Queen of Wands Wandering amongst these lost souls Those that live But live empty And only know how to suck energy And not how to give back the love They can pose and show potential But too often It is a paper mask That gets burned away By their fierce hunger When their prey is most vulnerable They know what they are In some way at some depth They have to know It is not a question of balance They are perpetually imbalanced Their pendulum is stuck And honesty is guilt They live their lives They are most of us And a part of all of us A craziness An insanity Perhaps because of the artificial lives we live In our artificial society Perhaps it is because of our potential That drives us past our ability So that we get stuck Lost and desperate Empty and waiting For the warmth of a giving soul So she is The Queen of Wands The ultimate gift Of passion Of warmth So everyone Wants her In one way or another As moths to a flame Or ships through a storm She guides us to the light But if we get too close Demand a right To stifle her light We get burned or dashed amongst the rocks So the Queen of Wands she walks Amongst us In women like you With a flame that attracts The desperate empty parasites In us all