I hate not having words in my heart, being constantly trapped in the dark, my mind exploding with ideas and no way to get them on paper. These hands of mind constantly wringing, hoping to wring the truth straight from my bones because they have direct access to the blood, that goes and flows all through my body, twisting and turning until finally reaching that ***** so big and full and large pumping and pushing, red as the sun as it sets in the west, from my bedroom I see it. My heart beats like that. And as I feel it set and watch it beat I wonder if words will ever creep from the spaces in my mind onto something tangible and real so that they become real. Because what are words if they are not spoken, what are words if they are not written down. And then I wonder if all this means I’m not as real as I think, am I as fragile as the flowers pushed by the wind and trampled by the steps of children running and laughing, unaware of their breakability, only seeing the future never seeing that it ends too soon, am I like that and only now seeing that this silence is more than just a writer’s block but more like a wake up call, that the words I can’t form on my lips are the silence of my soul.
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 12:43 AM UTC
I’ve lost my shadow
It fell through a crack
In the pavement it went
My body disoriented
I feel alone
Without its touch
The sun shines
My reflection is lost
My dimensions shrink
But you found my shadow
From its dark place
You pulled it
You stitched it back
Along my arms
All around me
And each time you
Pulled the needle and thread
You sewed by heart back together again
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 12:32 AM UTC
Who am I
This flesh and bone cage
Proving a hinderance
A canvas for the paint
Of scorn and judgement
A creation of a persecution
Deserved by none
Who I am buried
Beneath brush strokes
Colors that mean nothing
When looked at with a blind eye
My canvas is one of love
An identity and struggle
One that smudges
Strays from between the lines
Of what is accepted
But on my life's canvas
Who I am is who I am
One that I do not even know at times
Each stroke of the brush
Is a different moment
My life in color
Vivid, all mine
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 12:31 AM UTC