My death was where it all began,
the volatile downward decline that sealed my bitter fate,
my self inflicted suffrage,
preordained by those who chose to be the dictators of my existence,
the wardens of my prison cell,
for once I soared free in the open air like a bird of prey,
but in the end I sat huddled in a corner like a rodent waiting to die,
begging for the separation of my sternum from its home,
but fear not my words,
for it wasn’t the dying that caused this pain,
it wasn’t anything that twisted into whatever it all was,
it was the pain itself,
the incompleteness of everything that sucked away at whatever I had become,
this empty vessel that resembled someone I once recognized in the mirror,
someone I once knew to be me,
but now all I ask myself is who am I without me,
and why do I still care….
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Published by Matthew Tonks
People are surprised when reading Matthew’s stories that he’s a sane forty something year old, happily married, father of one, employed full time, who dreams of dark disturbing things that any sane person would never even contemplate thinking of. But it's true, he’s toyed with writing for most of his adult life, but has always found the peg a writer must fit into is not the shape he wished to be. His writing can be described as lamenting, long, concussive (yes it smashes you in the head), compulsive, and stuffed with rhythmic communication and violence, let’s not forget the violence. His own opinion on his writing is this, “You see, I don't just want the words to seep into your mind, but into your soul, showing you images of blood and beauty through, volatile language, violence, sex, love and sin. My muse takes different shapes, and every now and then you can see her shining her wicked smile in some of my stories, tempting you with her promises, but ripping your heart out instead.”
So have a look, and take a seat in my wayward ride, as you join me while I purge through, this twisted road of madness.
View all posts by Matthew Tonks
