Jun 2017
I had long realised that I like to make poems out of people I care about. I have loved words. I have loved how insignificant they're alone, how contradictory. How the same words can be framed and hung upon someone's darkest sky like a thousand glittering stars or be burnt into the corners of our minds getting us to wonder if heaven and hell both exist inside us.
How words are the cage and how they can be the wings.
How they label you sometimes and sometimes let you free.
And how sometimes with all their infiniteness they are not enough.
I had long realised that loving rarely ever equalled to understanding. And I found it to be one of the saddest things. Like how we all have so much love to give, and we all keep giving it away the way we would want to receive it. But it does not work that way, does it? You can't explain to a tone dead person how talking to them felt like finally being introduced to a melody they had heard so long ago it felt world's away, in another birth except the melody decided to stick with them.
And since then I have been trying to understand more, but sometimes I can't tell if I'm getting better at it or I just stop caring. Or if it's possible to try to walk in someone's shoe and still find a fault with him?
I had long realised that my poems one way or another turn out to be a goodbye to people I love. It's like my hands know they're going to have to wave good bye so they do the only thing they can. They write, as if to convey that they, my heart, will remember them long after they have been let go. I almost did not want to write this for you.
But.
You are the one who points at my wings when I make cage out of my words and get trapped in my mind.
You are the one I call at 2 am when I'm too tired to rebel against yet another label I earned for myself.
It's the mixed sound of our laughter echoing in my ribcage that makes me create my own spheres of infiniteness in few ephemeral minutes.
You understand that you don't always understand, and you accept.
I did not want to write this for you because all my poems turn into a eulogy no one stays long enough to hear.
But.
I think you'd listen.
How words are the cage and how they can be the wings.
How they label you sometimes and sometimes let you free.
And how sometimes with all their infiniteness they are not enough.
I had long realised that loving rarely ever equalled to understanding. And I found it to be one of the saddest things. Like how we all have so much love to give, and we all keep giving it away the way we would want to receive it. But it does not work that way, does it? You can't explain to a tone dead person how talking to them felt like finally being introduced to a melody they had heard so long ago it felt world's away, in another birth except the melody decided to stick with them.
And since then I have been trying to understand more, but sometimes I can't tell if I'm getting better at it or I just stop caring. Or if it's possible to try to walk in someone's shoe and still find a fault with him?
I had long realised that my poems one way or another turn out to be a goodbye to people I love. It's like my hands know they're going to have to wave good bye so they do the only thing they can. They write, as if to convey that they, my heart, will remember them long after they have been let go. I almost did not want to write this for you.
But.
You are the one who points at my wings when I make cage out of my words and get trapped in my mind.
You are the one I call at 2 am when I'm too tired to rebel against yet another label I earned for myself.
It's the mixed sound of our laughter echoing in my ribcage that makes me create my own spheres of infiniteness in few ephemeral minutes.
You understand that you don't always understand, and you accept.
I did not want to write this for you because all my poems turn into a eulogy no one stays long enough to hear.
But.
I think you'd listen.
