just a simple question,
dressed as a metaphor —
where do i get buried
when i can barely breathe on this earth?
kind of like a suffocation so deep,
filling my very being —
in my veins.
oh, i feel so weak.
invisible cuts bleed,
a kind of self-punishment.
spent so long handing out pieces of myself
like fragile offerings
to daily otherworldly deities —
hoping to provide
even an inch of comfort
that i usually needed.
was it ever enough?
yet called names, looked at in strange ways —
speculated every moment,
like a statue in an odd place.
as if they see through it all —
all the façade
of being high up on the clouds.
humorous, it shall be,
if they were to see
the stricken sounds i make —
grief-filled,
and vowing to never
ever let a pair of hands
hold my heart again.
this bleeds.
aches so tenderly —
like trying to whisper through a scream,
like trying to write to a hollow
that doesn't seem to cease,
like an overflowing cannon
that just never really spills.
will this be seen
as that quiet, raw, untamed beauty?
beast-like,
trying to hold it
within the grasp of stiff hands?
have they felt a little less alone?
perhaps in my company —
for i wouldn't want them to go
into the same feelings
of never being heeded to.
i wished they'd see,
but i'm walked all over through.
can't help it —
yeah, i know.
always left wondering:
why can't i comfort
with words
as they're meant to?
they feel like smoke and silence —
barely hard to describe
or to put down.
the heaviness
heaves a sigh
every time i spread my arms
a bit around.
maybe connections are hard.
maybe i should be quieter.
speaking has never helped —
perhaps i should tie
my hands,
my feet,
my mouth —
and vanish?
disappear?
become a ghost without a heartbeat —
because i haven’t really
been living either.
will you listen to the echoes
of these voices —
and the way they sound
in the night,
and when the sun dawns,
and the skies align?
will you see?
will you listen
to me?
May 14, 2025
May 14, 2025 at 12:37 PM UTC
just a simple question,
dressed as a metaphor —
where do i get buried
when i can barely breathe on this earth?
kind of like a suffocation so deep,
filling my very being —
in my veins.
oh, i feel so weak.
invisible cuts bleed,
a kind of self-punishment.
spent so long handing out pieces of myself
like fragile offerings
to daily otherworldly deities —
hoping to provide
even an inch of comfort
that i usually needed.
was it ever enough?
yet called names, looked at in strange ways —
speculated every moment,
like a statue in an odd place.
as if they see through it all —
all the façade
of being high up on the clouds.
humorous, it shall be,
if they were to see
the stricken sounds i make —
grief-filled,
and vowing to never
ever let a pair of hands
hold my heart again.
this bleeds.
aches so tenderly —
like trying to whisper through a scream,
like trying to write to a hollow
that doesn't seem to cease,
like an overflowing cannon
that just never really spills.
will this be seen
as that quiet, raw, untamed beauty?
beast-like,
trying to hold it
within the grasp of stiff hands?
have they felt a little less alone?
perhaps in my company —
for i wouldn't want them to go
into the same feelings
of never being heeded to.
i wished they'd see,
but i'm walked all over through.
can't help it —
yeah, i know.
always left wondering:
why can't i comfort
with words
as they're meant to?
they feel like smoke and silence —
barely hard to describe
or to put down.
the heaviness
heaves a sigh
every time i spread my arms
a bit around.
maybe connections are hard.
maybe i should be quieter.
speaking has never helped —
perhaps i should tie
my hands,
my feet,
my mouth —
and vanish?
disappear?
become a ghost without a heartbeat —
because i haven’t really
been living either.
will you listen to the echoes
of these voices —
and the way they sound
in the night,
and when the sun dawns,
and the skies align?
will you see?
will you listen
to me?
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