I am a killer

I am a killer, my mind is a graveyard.

My ideas, my stories, my children; all lie broken and mangled. Mauled, misshapen, aborted, mutilated. All lie in the graveyard of my thoughts or the mausoleum of my computer files.

I am a god. The cruelest kind. The most worthless kind. The most pathetic kind.

An idea is born into my arms; raw, pure, a perfect locus of potential. I think to myself, "What a beautiful child. It will grow to be a wonder of this world."

I dump it to the floor. It cries and howls while I walk away, and in time, I forget it's even there. It dies and shrivels in the relentless winds.

I am a god. The worst kind.

Endlessly self-editing, endlessly self-critiquing. Endlessly hitting type and delete, type and delete, type and delete typ ande dellete typ eandd delet type adn tdelete type and teeleeted atyeped and te TYPE TYPE TYPE TYPE

DELETE

I am a killer. I am a god. I am scum. I am worthless. I am perfection. I am nothing.

This story is nothing. This poem is nothing. Nothing but something to type to fill the endless void of existence.

This story is just a means to an end. A way to cease the endless cacophony of self-doubt and suffocating depression.

This story-poem is ugly, but it's something. IT IS SOMETHING. Finally, a child that is not discarded in the empty corridors of my mind, but something that is actually alive. A bridge from me to you. Yes, YOU.

I made this for myself. Me, a broken, ugly god of misshapen nothings. But I made it for you as well. Yes, YOU.

It was hard. To push the child from my head, like Athena bursting forth from Zeus's skull, fully formed. It was agonizing. But I did it for you. Yes, YOU.

This child, this story-poem, needs love. It needs nurturing. It needs care. I can't do it myself. I need you. Yes, YOU.

Will you take care of this child? Will you give it love?

Will you help me?

Please, help me.