The End

by Chris McKenna

27/02/97 20:00 - 20:50 Written after writing an e-mail to pen-friend, after coming home from school ill.

Well, my inspiration has finally ceased,
Drawn a blank you may say,
Blotted its copy book,
Placed a black stripe
Amidst the gold stars.

No experiences to draw from,
No life to lead.
No talents or proficiencies,
No interests or beliefs
Amid the dull and depraved

No movement forwards,
No movement back,
Just rooted to the spot.
A grip on reality
Beginning to crumble and tear.

An empty warehouse
No orders to fulfil
No bills to pay.
A blank sheet of paper
Normally filled with transactions

An endless dial tone
with no numbers to ring.
No incoming calls
No faxes
no mail.

cut off from the world
isolated from humanity
no sounds for the ear
no sights for the eye
nothing but blackness and that ringing you hear.

Removed from civilisation
Lost from history itself
No certificate of birth
No grave in the cemetery,
Nothing to say that you existed at all

The tenuous link with my rationality
finally snaps and breaks
over the edge I go
Into the bottomless pit,
Never to return

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