my hands tremble on paper,
the sharp pencil crisply glides,
across sheets spread out on the table.
my feelings are laid bare,
dispossessed of the weapons.
history is written in the past.
so why am i worried about the future?
ink laid bare across battlefields of corpses.
these documents have split apart lives,
memories and hopes.
i bury all hopes of being happy in this world.
because what i want must not be confused with what i must feel.
so i hide behind these words,
writing thousands of pages, scrolling past ages and ages of sacrifice.
to only end up
saying nothing at all.
d
  o
     n
         o
            t
          h
       i
    d
e