I hate poetry
I hate words
I'm unable to see their strength.
I’m unable to feel their weight.
But when I try to write it suddenly hurts.
Breaking my bones, my hands are useless.
There is sandstorm within me.
Is it worth expressing why?
Millions of poets.
Millions of artists.
What makes me so special?
I will never be so very grand.
I should just keep myself in silence.
I don’t want demons or angels knowing.
I don’t want to feel the heat of exposing my voice.
The cold of loneliness from over-saturation.
But when I think of this shell I dwell in.
When I think of the sands of time within.
The inevitable knowledge of chaos.
The fragile emptiness of my existence.
What am I protecting, really?
Next to these giants of the world.
The titans of political, economic unrest
The gods of a complex black hole of society
Maybe if I open up and show pieces of me.
Even the smallest speck of sand.
The heat might turn it all into glass.
The cold might be shared with another soul.
Maybe I’ll see my shell paper thin then.
A fallacy built with the hands of others.
I’ll be part of the grand cosmos of existence.
I’ll die alone, and unknown. yet stronger.
I’ll be glass instead of dust in the wind.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
I hate poetry
I hate words
I'm unable to see their strength.
I’m unable to feel their weight.
But when I try to write it suddenly hurts.
Breaking my bones, my hands are useless.
There is sandstorm within me.
Is it worth expressing why?
Millions of poets.
Millions of artists.
What makes me so special?
I will never be so very grand.
I should just keep myself in silence.
I don’t want demons or angels knowing.
I don’t want to feel the heat of exposing my voice.
The cold of loneliness from over-saturation.
But when I think of this shell I dwell in.
When I think of the sands of time within.
The inevitable knowledge of chaos.
The fragile emptiness of my existence.
What am I protecting, really?
Next to these giants of the world.
The titans of political, economic unrest
The gods of a complex black hole of society
Maybe if I open up and show pieces of me.
Even the smallest speck of sand.
The heat might turn it all into glass.
The cold might be shared with another soul.
Maybe I’ll see my shell paper thin then.
A fallacy built with the hands of others.
I’ll be part of the grand cosmos of existence.
I’ll die alone, and unknown. yet stronger.
I’ll be glass instead of dust in the wind.