Your pain consumes me.
I wish to be the ocean that swallows, corrodes, purifies; I am no longer something that can
resurrect.
I do not have wings to tear and gift to you so you could at least taste the sun like before.
I never had light to warm you those times you did not want darkness.
I cannot be any other language but the one that tangles and becomes forgotten.
But you, you are grace and favour in god's tongue
and deader things,
the nectar of Nara,
a mere grain.
I am of lesser beauties: Dolores, Soledad, Tristabel, Dierdre.
Women of misery, husks concealing winds that bear no ships, nor songs to ever fall on the hearts they ache for. Unheard.
'a lonely soul
an ocean soul
I live no more to shame nor me nor you
And you...
I wish I didn't feel for you anymore.'
Author notes
'Sing what you can't say
Forget what you can't play
Hasten to drown into beautiful eyes
Walk within my poetry, this dying music
- My loveletter to nobody.'
- Dead Boy's Poem, Nightwish.
(last 5 lines were taken from same song.)
I'm sick of writing to such silent things.
And all that remained...
Comments
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You write with such rich imagery and pain that it is nearly consuming, all taking. I cannot begin to write of such despair. It screams as a live vengeful thing. It screams with viable life. And I feel it so deeply in my body that it should be a shame. I am merely a vessel for it and you the words it takes form as.
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I am not particularly fond of this one, perhaps because it's unfinished, or feels unfinished. Perhaps it's because it's shyte. Who knows, one is their own worst critic, as they say. But I thank you so very much for your kind words, and your time. Yes, there was much despair in this. So much so that there are stains on that paper from eyes constantly exposed to a fractured sort of heaven, but unable to touch it.
You are wonderful. My love and warm regards.
~S. -
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Perhaps, but are we often enough uncomfortable when it comes to things incomplete and utterly painful?n
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