I'm proud of my words.
In secret, mostly.
Loud lights and
open mic nights scare me,
to write the truth.
The things i write
and the things i say
live in two different worlds.
one - where my mind has its
own way - telling me to
keep mum at least today - s p o k e n
the world i try to hide in
on paper
is forgiving.
it will never shun me
for living
under layers
upon layers
upon layers
of curving words that i created - w r i t t e n
i pretend to think
of the rhythm that should inhabit
the empty space between words,
but then i fail,
almost
by force of habit -
as you can now very well see
or hear?
Mics aren't as forgiving as people.
when the speakers blast
my trembling breath
into the corners of a small room,
i think i understand
why a mountain can be named
Mount Doom -
it's the same amount of effort. - s p o k e n
What do i do, then?
Then, i run.
i clamber over steps
stumble over wires
careful not to trip.
i leave behind the small room
with big people
and laughing lips.
and i run, run, run.
i close the door behind me
as i break into my own
castle of ink and unsaved notes.
i thank the chineese
for turning trees into
empty screens waiting
for me to empty my thoughts
onto them.
thank you, darling Egypt
deceased trees make me feel
better about myself
every single day - w r i t t e n
I'm proud of my words.
In secret, mostly.
dude paper is dead trees that's mad