When you want to write something
but the words won’t come to you
and you wonder if it’s about vocabulary issues
or just personal issues.
You ask yourself,
why the heck can’t I
write this down
when all I think about
is how I wanted to see the words inked
(maybe, just maybe, it’d help me forget).
You start to doubt the integrity of your craft,
you ask your muse
and get nothing but a sad look
(like, somber and defeated and sorry altogether because you can’t)
You have a lot of words running through
your mind but none has made it past your pen,
none has made it through that wall.
And then you ask your heart why.
Why do you do this to yourself?
Is it not better if you keep it inside your head?
To not have any concrete evidence that such thing existed
(wouldn’t it be easier to forget then?)
You look at your reflection and see your past self,
asking you to please stop.
Stop, stop punishing yourself with memories.
You must remember that there is no sin in loving someone
even if you are not loved in return.
Lovers are not sinners
regardless of any circumstances,
love is the only religion we can all agree on
(funnily enough, love has punished a lot of people – exhibit A: You).
You look at the words you’ve written before
and the shadow of the people behind them.
Will this be the same?
You haven’t forgotten any of them
but time has salved the pain
and all you have now is a hollowness you can’t quite explain.
You look at the paper in front of you
and think of how you’d be reading the words
you’ll eventually pen down in the hopes that it’ll balm your wounded heart.
Will time be enough to let you have a peace of mind?
You look at him and you know the answer
(tomorrow you write, but not today)