Delicate hands twist violently around the throats of supposed threats,
Visions of deceitful intent cascading through the mind’s eye,
Ignorance of the truth,
Blinded by the lies that spread themselves through your thoughts,
Disregarding the facts Even when the fiction is so obvious,
You lie to yourself to continue on,
For without your lies,
Without your self-deception,
You are nothing but an empty shell,
A husk of the warrior you once was,
A child born to rise to the top of the hill,
Only to fall back down again by your own hand,
A child,
A warrior,
A princess,
A queen,
A liar,
An emptiness never to be filled…
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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
