Scribing My Pulse

even as I have lost luster for life
my nerves being chilled to ice
still, I write
I write, still
as emotions have vanquished in the face of agony
rendering me a gaping void of apathy
still, I write
I write, still
when there appears to be no escape from abyss
and into the sullen darkness I drift
still, I write
I write, still
the pain in my heart as sharp as a knife
being pulled out, and driven into my side
still, I write
I write, still
writing is my pulse
when the very words I poach
as speech has croaked
and my saliva as thick as pulp
forming lumps in my throat
swallowing each moment that I choke
flared nostrils exhaling smoke
still, I write
I write, still
otherwise, this would be murder unwrote
as any lack of writing, would be as a gyrote
this would be murder unwritten
for the failure to form a sentence
this would be murder unscripted
letting the venom navigate a circulatory system snakebitten
this would be good riddance
as I failed to prevent my own ending
but still, I write
I write, still
so that presumptive storyline is fiction
and my narrative is still being written
therefore I write my redemption
end scene, as the backdrop cascades in crimson