[i wanted to write small so that nobody would see, or to frame font white and background alike so you thought i'd finally lost the plot; or better still, i wanted to write with invisible ink, so you'd all think i simply had nothing to say...yet even i don't believe in miracles, nor the making of them
and so i sit with pen and pad, screen and keyboard...entering my own contest like a sad little loser, just so i can force myself to feel, even if no one else gives a flying fuck.]
soul is suffering from silentitis, offering only to hide behind a wall of numb, where fingertips can't curse, nor relay reactions to either screen nor page. i am a concoction of classified information, isolating ideals to the creases of ill-feigned smiles, while wishing that words could worm their own way out:
i have voice that doesn't do vulnerable very well and love that loses more life than it can save, and i have huge waves of emotions that can only be swallowed by the secrets they swim from...these scenes are certainly grim and so i seldom speak
yet i wish to express myself;
i wish to etch these angsts into someone else's shells, so that they may know hell and so they know that they don't need to breathe me in order to see me die...
but suffer i do, and shall when this soul stays silent, for i sacrifice self every time--
i rile-up rhymes inside my mind, to curse ways of a wayward heart and i don't know where to start, unless i sail a sea to just be me:
just me
and numb.
[i had inserted a dozen dilemmas here, adhered to my multitudes of metaphor; i wrote of boundaries and of broken, and of planes that would never land...but only one hand could grasp my grievances and so, i'll tell you only that i feel fear.]
Every ending is alive with audacity and still fingers fail to find only one point to prod and i nod...but only because i know--i know me and the feet that fall on forgiveness for the sake of fate.
this soul is suffering from silentitis--a problem with a purpose to prove, one that soothes me only as stolen...where every artery aches to tell its tale, yet where protection plays amongst stories too true to share.
i am a concoction of chaos and classified causes; of emotions, life's motions, ripped chords and dilemmas; of agony's airs and loyalty's tunes...of defiance and determination...even though i'm confused.
please just trust me when i tell you that i'm not wrongfully pacified...just quiet and quite comfortably
numb.
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