Words... Words are messy.
In the simplest of things, to just think of a thing on your own seems so simple.
Putting it into words is the hard part.
Poetry does not need to rhyme, and stories do not need to fit a format.
Art contorts to the person that wields the power of it,
Simply put art is a piece of a soul.
Many can say that I am foolish for hoping and denying that hope.
Many can say the things I've done are... that of a wench tied to a mast of a boat, screaming in agony and spewing venom in the words not even she can describe to the reason why.
I stopped.
The hopes and wishes I used to hold dear I let go, the fire that resided in my chest no longer calls me home.
Love... is beautifully ignorant. How dare I love. How dare I give that chance to finally free myself from the gallows and desolate lands of my own psyche!
But it's tiring being angry... at practically everything.
I'm tired, and have admitted to my faults and the wrongdoings I have done to those whom I love deeply.
Fault, and slow, but try as I may go.
I do, and fight, and shall continue to do what I believe is right.
Only when the time is nigh will I return to my comrades,
Only when I can stand again, will I regain my voice,
Only then when I no longer hurt shall you hear my voice.
When the time is high and the moon has past from the awakening of new creatures,
Then I will return, but... not as you knew me.
For then and only then, I will know what it is to follow my tangible destiny.
YOU ARE READING
Dichotomy
PoetryThe observant is always watching. Humanity is here and thriving, but our world won't be surviving our reign. Alive, but not noticed in living. Here we are. A new life, new words, a new start. Aug. 12th 2019 - June 18th 2021 Vol. 1
