They say pain can help you write better
Pain
They say
I scream
so quietly no one can hear me
Pain pain pain
Over and over
Pain
Again again again

They say pain can be art
But how do I save myself?
When my lungs are filling up with water
When I am drowning
in the sea of my own thoughts
Is anyone out there quiet enough
to hear my screams?
Someone save me
No no no
Just let me drown

Because unlike most,
I cannot simply turn

the facts
(I am not theirs
You are not mine
My heart is racing
Living
But too fastly
I am dying.)

into words that speak to another souls
That comfort
those like me, like you
and tell us quietly, "you are not alone in this"

Tell me, my love,
(or rather
fellow comrade, high on our youth and lust)
how do I turn my pain into something beautiful?

When you say,

Pain is not
Pain cannot be
Pain is quiet
Pain is truth
Pain does not have to be beautiful
Pain is you

Because you are not beautiful
and there is no need to be
Just like how you do not have to write better
Because I hear you

Because by then,
I would have known
how the words I spat at them
would seep through their ears
and down their spinal cord
and somehow, eventually
reach their heart
where its poison would slowly **** them

Because by then,
I would have known
how much they try
even if
they have had ***
they did not believe in god
they lost hope in humanity
they were not democrats

Because by then,
I would have known
how it takes every ******* muscle in their tired bodies
to not bring out a gun in a room full of people
they saw at school every day
or how they would rather
let their anxiety or depression
take them away

Because by then,
I would have known
how I was not the only one working
or trying to love
when the reason they had lost all hope
in that meaningless world
in the first place
was me

Because by then,
I would have known
that I cannot
expect somebody
to love me
when I myself am
unable to love
them

I wish
To look at the waves of old memories
(Are they even mine?)
of brushing rough fingers against
misty hands―salty like sea foam
(Are they even mine?)
Or typewritten words
(Are they even mine?)
because I simply despise my own mark of pen
because ink stains this day
will never be as fascinating
as the way the sea makes your sky-speckled shirt
as dark and as deep as it is
forming waves against your stomach

Stop,
Ask myself
(Are they even mine?)

And sigh,
not heavily
nor curse myself,
with the words
I so carelessly throw around
like this
like the sea of letters
pulling me away now,

but whisper,
"That was beautiful."
(Were they even mine?)