Jul 2016
they say poetry is about making your words count,
making something out of nothing,
to make the words make sense only to those who knew--
--those who knew how to read, feel, unfeel and come apart--
but poetry was never easy for me
not when i had no words to explain the pain--
no words to describe the stories behind the faded scars, tanned and bulging still
no words to describe how the once constant flow of black blood onto stationery,
has now entered a moment of stillness, veins closing in on themselves,
the life force of words slowly coming to an end
i never had any words that could explain the emptiness in my ribs,
the pit of feelings growing more and more void as time passed by
years passed, pain came and went, and i still had no words to describe
there were no words that could describe the tiny little whispers past midnight,
beside my mother in our once big, big, bed, or in the bathroom, on the
pristine, white tiles in our former house,
the tiny whispers that were prayers, pleas, and curses thrown out into the darkness
soft, tiny, whispers, giving out what i possibly can without the stress of poetry
i miss you, i'd whisper against my phone, back against a tiled wall
feet skidding against the bathroom tiles as my knees supported my head
i hate you
it was my fault, i chanted silently, tears against my face and the
pillow
all my fault, i stuff my pillow in my mouth, forcing down the sobs,
if i were better, this wouldn't have happened
with each swift stroke of my brush, with a bright red being the only paint color i had
the voices in my head whispering softly, loudly, ringing in my ears
keep going, keep going, it's not enough, you can do it
the ceiling would be my best friend in times like these
being witness, and ear, to all the whispers i let out in the dark
it was the closest i could get to having a canvas, a blank page of a notebook
to write--speak, whisper, plead--poetry on, poetry of my own standards
poetry that made sense, only to me, poetry that was written in a language
that only i could read
*this will all be over soon
making something out of nothing,
to make the words make sense only to those who knew--
--those who knew how to read, feel, unfeel and come apart--
but poetry was never easy for me
not when i had no words to explain the pain--
no words to describe the stories behind the faded scars, tanned and bulging still
no words to describe how the once constant flow of black blood onto stationery,
has now entered a moment of stillness, veins closing in on themselves,
the life force of words slowly coming to an end
i never had any words that could explain the emptiness in my ribs,
the pit of feelings growing more and more void as time passed by
years passed, pain came and went, and i still had no words to describe
there were no words that could describe the tiny little whispers past midnight,
beside my mother in our once big, big, bed, or in the bathroom, on the
pristine, white tiles in our former house,
the tiny whispers that were prayers, pleas, and curses thrown out into the darkness
soft, tiny, whispers, giving out what i possibly can without the stress of poetry
i miss you, i'd whisper against my phone, back against a tiled wall
feet skidding against the bathroom tiles as my knees supported my head
i hate you
it was my fault, i chanted silently, tears against my face and the
pillow
all my fault, i stuff my pillow in my mouth, forcing down the sobs,
if i were better, this wouldn't have happened
with each swift stroke of my brush, with a bright red being the only paint color i had
the voices in my head whispering softly, loudly, ringing in my ears
keep going, keep going, it's not enough, you can do it
the ceiling would be my best friend in times like these
being witness, and ear, to all the whispers i let out in the dark
it was the closest i could get to having a canvas, a blank page of a notebook
to write--speak, whisper, plead--poetry on, poetry of my own standards
poetry that made sense, only to me, poetry that was written in a language
that only i could read
*this will all be over soon
