Sad and hurt can be poetic, just like love and happy can be. For some silly reasons, I love sadness. The most human I felt was always in sadness—and—or in hurt. And, I live for those moments—that person who’d strip yourself away from who you are to show who you should be, that banker who would take her rage on you because she’d a crappy day, that family member who wouldn’t recognise your talent because they are so full of themselves. In times like these, I learn what a poem can and can’t do. It aids us with expressing the feeling, but it fails by doing it only verbally. We—I—need something more powerful than words to tell stories, and I fail at finding other ways, so I shut myself into a peanut shell, and I begin to sleep. Because, sleep puts every thought to a rest. Sleep takes every worry to an ice cream parlour and gets them a scoop of Belgian chocolate with chocolate chips and raisins. Sleep kisses every one of your scars with a goodnight story that feels good like an orgasm. But, sleep isn’t very helpful. Not at expressing. So, I come back. To words. And, I write, and I write, and I write more only to end up telling less. And, everything accumulates inside of me like a pile of dirty clothes, and it scares me. It scares me because I’m afraid that one day, someone will knock on my soul and when I open it up, all they’ll see is a heap of hardened stories that failed to find a way to get out.
If I want to heal, you shouldn’t exist. But,that’s impossible. You may as well die, butyou won’t stop existing. To me. Never.
When everything settles on the ground, I want to lose my cape, draw the window curtains and dim the lights—I want to be as far as I can be from everything I’ve been juggling with—I want to free myself and bury into the ground to raise as a plant.
It would’ve been easy if itwere anything but love.
I didn’t get to choose my skin, or my scars.I got cut when I slept with people who had blades for hair, and I got bruised when I was embraced by people who had rocks for chests.I neither chose them, nor I regret having them happened to me.We are but what we have been through—I’m skin, bones, and some wild thoughts.You are what you’ve been through—and here ... you get to put whatever they are that you’ve been through. Or you think you’ve been through.I tell stories—oftentimes, the made-up ones—but they don’t structure me, they don’t give shape to my massless thinking, they don’t exonerate me.Because, I don’t believe in words; words are for people who has shut themselves between pages.I’d like to roar. In the wilderness. Like an animal.Maybe that’ll do me good. Maybe that’ll set me free.Maybe that’ll give me shape.
Oh, how the nights are always young,for the hearts that are in love!
I should heal quicker than it takes for a raindrop to hit the ground from its source. Even a second longer would hurt me so badly that I have to heal from the beginning again.
I’ll write ‘til I’m clean. Til my body ismine alone, til my heart is dirt-free, andtil I become the man I lost in a crowd.
There are at least million more nights I have to stay awake before I can sleep. But, I’ll dream. Now. Even if I am nowhere near to sleep. Even if my mouth gets dry. Even if I’m killed by my pillow bugs. I’ll dream. With eyes open, mouth dry, and pillows crawling with bugs.
You are the Sun to my being—absolutely necessary, but the farther Istay from you, the more I am alive.