Venison's Dossier - Imposter

Everything I touch is bound to die from my own hand.

No matter how much it fills me with joy

to see something come alive

To watch something be fed and watered

Slowly filling with life as the sun rises with every day

I grow tired of it all, eventually.

I guess it’s kind of a lie, saying they die.

Because they never got to be alive in the first place.388Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEHyzqDG1Uh

I used to not know why I would sabotage myself,

why I would waste away, every aching hour

pouring my soul into something

just to watch in complete apathy

as I turned on the faucet

and smothered the light out,

gurgling its non existent breaths

until all its possible life was no longer an inkling.

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Why did I do it?

I laid awake in the night, eyes unfocused

trying to split myself down the middle

trying to rip away from my own view

to see myself outside myself

like a silent observer, noting the symptoms of the insane.

But I think, now I understand.

I only have joy at the idea of an idea.

The thrill of something new and alien

The initial spark and it’s pretty flash

But I detest the fire that follows.

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When I write a book, it’s like I’m visiting with a stranger.

Everything is an enigma, the doors you open inside their home.

The colour of their wallpaper, the aroma of their fireplace.

I rush to get to know it all.

I embrace the wonder of their comfy couch.

But eventually I look around and things have changed.

I’ve made quite a mess.

I’ve left fingerprints on the shelves.

I’ve rearranged the furniture

And suddenly I’ve made it my home, not theirs.

I don’t like what I am seeing.

because I only see a mirror staring back at me.

Every line of dialogue, I can hear my voice,

no matter the tone, the accent or word.

I find pieces of myself in every action, every character and every turn the story takes.

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And I wonder, why must it be me that brings them life?

If it were anyone else, I know I would take care of it.

I would watch them grow, proud to witness such a wonder.

But I don’t want the burden.

No matter what kind of world I build,

Grand cathedrals and kingdoms rich with gold

I know if I dig far down enough I will find me

A clown pretending to be a creator.

An imposter, a fool, who thinks they can play God.

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