What if we created God?

No,  this is not another conspiracy theory or a girl’s confused saunter in a journey to find meaning to life. This is not to be an interesting argument starter or a struggle to find validation. It isn’t a base for someone to be a knight in shining armor and save a befuddled mind from chaos. What it is though is a labyrinth, a maze of furious eyes and hypercritical thoughts and a road to a much known prejudice.  

But what if? Have you ever wondered?

What if someone, before calligraphy and inscriptions, before devotion and this iron-clad faith, when the world wasn’t as small as it is now and the need to feel presence of another being was at its apex, what if someone in the unknown vortex of time stared up at the vast entity of the sky that seemed to be filled with life back then and called out to what may or may not have felt real.

And just like this make-believe man, what if each of us (in our own way) look up at the sky and in our hearts, and call out to an entity that may or may not be real, may or may not be listening, may or may not be watching over each and every one of us; and I ask myself if it would truly matter if we created God. Would this glorified being, living in the shades beyond the clouds of the promise land lose his or her beauty? Would creation seem less beautiful; as if the depth of the oceans would fail being mysterious or mountains escape their sense of opposition? Would flight become something that was not envied even though our eyes stared at the freedom the wings of a bird possessed? Would the caress of the wind on our skin stop our hairs from standing on end? Would music misplace its rhythm or melodies deafen our ears?      

Would our eyes stop seeing the gorgeous in the world if what we thought created the gorgeous was but only a figment of our own prelude?

My words are scared of sound. It makes them fear the outside world. It makes them fear what questions and assumptions will turn them in to. So instead, they drown the world out in to a sheet and escape in to its blank pages.

My words only find their spines when they’re directed towards a reflection as if they know their rule only reigns in a straight line and power comes from the echo that deafens the room.

I write because my spoken words don’t situate the fire burning its way out of me.

I write because you won’t understand my phrases unless they come in a paragraph. I write to avoid confusion of the person I am and the stranger you make me out to be. The confusion comes from the thought that what I scribble in to everything I can get my hands on is nothing but fiction, a creation from my most vivid imagination. The confusion comes from the assumption that my pen dips in to ink and not blood.

My blood.
My soul.

I write because I’m desperate to be seen past the shell I put front. Being discovered has lost its appeal yet I wish you could find me; find me beyond my guards and all the walls I’ve put up, find me in the shade of my false confidence, find me where you’re sure I won’t be for that is exactly where I’ll chose as my hideaway, sheltered underneath all my paragraphs and the litter of paper that has taken so long to compose one perfect goodbye.

I’ll be where you left me. The same place you’ve found me countless times before, for I have a stagnant heart that beats ink and leaks masterpieces on a shroud paper that will be forgotten on a far corner. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~could this make a perfect goodbye?

Sometimes i'm the small hand on a clock, sluggishly winding its way around a time frame no one wants to acknowledge
Sometimes i'm the book you've put your initials on and forgot
Sometimes i'm the flammable silk you bring out for microwave dinners
And occasionally the dark lace underwear that's hidden under your white cottons
I'm the giggle you seek after funerals
And the reflection under empty wine bottles
I'm the fun nights you refuse to talk about in formal company
Made up of lipstick stained tissue papers with numbers half finished scribbled on its empty behind
I'm the 3rd grade essay you refuse to take seriously,  but keep in a folder because it makes a beautiful memory
I'm the words you let your lips hold on to for fear they may embarrass you
I'm the shy love letter your father sent your mother before they knew what being in love really meant
And later
Much later
I'm the teacher parent conference your father took you to because your parents couldn't stand to be in the same room together
I'm the ice cream you eat alone because you heard somewhere that ice cream fixes everything
And the pillow talk you shared with your best friend before time stretched your friendship apart
I'm the long walks you took when going home felt unbearable So as to bleed your feet from too much exhaustion, then maybe,  just maybe,  you'll have a full nights sleep
I am everything you keep others from seeing
I'm also everything you cringe away from when the reflection startles you in the mirror

Perhaps this letter should have started with an 'i am sorry'; an apology for all the time I've frightened you for my life,  for pushing your mind to assumptions that your words were no consolation,  for chosing the momentary pleasure of that which will eventually deteriorate my body.

An apology for turning a deaf ear to your plea and the tears you've wasted on them. Maybe an explanation that doesn't leave you more confused than when I was defensive, refusing to share my depth. An excuse for all those times I've used humor to shadow the perfect fleeting instances we've shared.

I'm sorry
But i'm not
I'm sorry for letting you down
I'm not for leaning so heavily on things that werent you
I'm sorry I've neglected your care
I'm not for taking away your hope that perhaps things will be better, perhaps things will change and I will be, once more,  the pillar you can lean on
I'm sorry for being the vortex in your existent
But i'm not for your choice to stay
I'm sorry for this letter
I'm even more sorry that you'll get to read it

He broke his wings on Thursday
Not this Thursday though
But on the year he decided,
‘It would be better to fly than to float’
He shattered his wings
And watches the crowed descend
Upon his pieces
And feed from his scattered remains
They put him back together on Monday
But left him with rags for cloths
After scavenging his pockets for gold,
The threads that held his bones
Cricked in agony
So he limped to a house he seldom considered a home
He never remembered Tuesday
For it was a partner to a murderous Monday
That put the scars on his skin
And the shamble in his walk
He signed of Wednesday to Friday
Just because it asked
And because giving away was his specialty
For taking from him had been customary.
He groomed his ruined wings on Saturday
Getting ready for a Sunday that would put him on display
Above a pillar of hazy gazes
And wilted roses
Since beauty came before sentiment
As the eyes would never see
Beyond the glamour he lacked
And the weight that hunched his back
Thus he waited on Thursdays and his next resolve
Just to watch the crowed fall upon his empty alcove

A word,
Packed with power,
Rests on my barren flesh,
It slashes, 
With no warning,
It burns,
Hotter than fire,
And I wonder what I ever did,
Except become a mistake you never wanted,
Holding your dreams captive,
In the shell of my heart,
Covered with ruin,
Of this deteriorating self,
Yet here I am,
An embodiment of it,
Of the sin you would not admit to,
A mistake you would never kneel for,
Yet here I am,
A constant reminder of what you could have had,
You would not resent me,
You never really could,
But your heart did,
It kept secretes in its casing,
Of expressions never spoken,
Except when the anger reaches its peak,
And it flows like a thunderous volcano, 
Burning my soul to ashes,
So when I’m in my bed,
I sleep like the dead,
Not from exhaustion,
But of great lose, a lose that took the very essence of me,
I sleep like the dead,
For I am soon to be.

I hide from the world sometimes
Afraid that its touch could bruise or open up prior scars
Scared that the gasoline I socked my cloth in could ignite from the slightest of flames.
I put up walls as defenses
And stack pillows behind me terrified of the fall if or when life decides to sweep the rug from under my feet
There is comfort in where I stand, way up the turret
Where the only fear comes from the thought of plummeting down the cliff and on to the rocky shore
But other times the world seduces me in to its embrace
And I let it
I let it obscure me with its infinite experiences along with all its unexpected incidents
Ravaging amongst its peculiar treasures
Touch seizes to just be a simple caress of my skin atop another but rather the explosion of my sense
Shattering yet exhilarating
Fracturing, digging its way from the inside out
And it makes me consider, perhaps these are the times where the void is as thin as paper
And my finger translucent against its barricade
Because the ocean that suffocated me before
Lets me thrive in its core

It was never that I was alone, that I lacked people around me, and that I was in need of comfort but rather that I required more than I could ever give. I am selfish. I crave too much from many all at the same time and I demand without words that they fulfill it. Perhaps I could trace the root of my need to a past where I did nothing but give until there was nothing left but an empty white shell. However, if I trace it back to its origin then I’ll encounter all of the barricades of my past I had to leap over knowing it was best to smash them to pieces.

I am a coward, you see. I am a coward that hides under the illusion of bravery and I suppose that is the worst kind of lie since you’re deceiving no one but yourself. I fear intimacy; I fear it in a way that is frightening. Embraces burn my skin from their heat and kind words scar my ears and mind. They create doubts that I procrastinate over to a point of insanity. I know it’s for the reason that I lack the love a human must feel for themselves; it’s a mystery I let people fiddle with. My mind would never let me believe another could feel anything but contempt or at the very least, a certain degree of distaste for I am deficient in so much of what I should have.

Sometimes I wonder if this emptiness has a bound or if it’ll ever grow one. Its feels so intricate like the most complicated mathematics problem. I hate it. I hate it’s this complicated. I hate how alone it makes me feel and how no matter the number of people I surround myself with and no matter how many times I hear that I’m loved, it never feels quite real. I try my hardest to avoid lying to people. One cannot live a life of lies and then keep projecting it on to the world. It would be the equivalent of gradually decaying from the inside out. Perhaps that is why I chose to die small death everyday always burdened by an unsavory truth.

I read a story about escaping today
On the phone that never leaves my side
On the phone that makes me feel self-conscious with out its presence
I read a story about skipping moments
And their baggage of lifetimes
Just jumping to a present anticipated
Not existed through
Not experienced or felt
Imagine this
Imagine a whirlwind and its center
Imagine it gilded
Imagine their being a portal in the middle
And a thin gravel road to its gate
Why is it guilded?
Because anticipations are glittery
They make us reach out with our subconscious
They make us want what we'd never need when we're sane
When reality binds us in its grip
But these are the times when veracity isn't a problem
For we are imagining
With fantasies perfected through countless school hours
Where we killed tiny bits if ourselves everyday
The "where did we go wrong"'s speeches by the parents
The gentle but sadly condescending gazes of therapists
All that paved the way to a meticulous solitude
we learned how to be without being
And to exist in the oblivion
Where us and "our world" are at a frightening precision
So I read a story about omitting Everything in between
On the phone that never leaves my side
And so I found the source of the story and removed it
I live for the anticipated moments
For unexpected flashes of happiness
For the unforeseen events that changes bits and pieces of our lives
For the unanticipated love strangers make me feel
For the pain that reminds me i'm only human
Everything I couldn't skip for the sake of living

I hate it when people speak to me like i'm unstable.
I hate it more that i've given them reason to treat me that way,
Like the way my parents penelopize all their decisions, 
Or when they have to go outside their comfort zone to keep me from spiraling.
I hate it when you laugh at my dull jokes to keep from hurting my feelings,
Or when you agree to my insane ideas just so i'd feel sane.
I hate how all my first greetings are awkward and the way my smiles seem strained.
I hate how anxious I feel about not being accepted and how it stops becoming important after.
I hate how the sky with all its stars and the lonely moon make more sense to me than a crowd of people.
I hate how i always get sick after my walks in the rain and how my body never adopted to it.
I hate that I NEED to walk in the rain like an addict needing his fix.
I hate how my sadness makes me treat people, how I learned to shrug in the face of their pain.
I hate how I don't care about a lot of things and how others drain my whole soul.
I hate the way I love; how it tricks my mind in to believing the world belongs in the hands of that one person.
I hate how I never learned to let go of that world.
................ But most of all I hate the way all the things I hate about myself have made me who I am and i still haven't learned to accept them.

I'm so high I could eat a star
I could taste the moon
And feels its silver salt on my tongue
I could eat a star and feel it move through me
Through us
In to me
In to us
In the most introvert way possible
And when I open my mouth
You'll look deep in to the shining pit of my soul
Made up of clusters of stars
And you'll wish you came with
On all my adventures to space
To the world made up through my telescope
To the place I formed from silent whispers
In to your ears and on your lips
One you licked away because they tasted like candy
But never felt because you were never meant for the salt of the moon
And the bright shine of the stars
Or of my telescope world

Memories exceed the bounds I have made,
They torment the leisure of my head;
It's the fright that occupies,
The dread that ignites,
And all for a peace that can't be held,
Or a love that can't be gained;
Hope depletes in a given time,
When the dread is full to the brim,
No matter how well we seem,
There is always a limit to the dream;
Of these fragment or the chasm.
And of moments I fantasize,
Where the white and bright meadow,
Fill the holes in my shadow,
Of the torment i've created,
From all thoughts palpated,
Yet I wish in the end,
I rest on golden sand,
And it swallows me up,
While furns decorate it's peak,
Because then shall it be,
The instant I am free.