"What are you doing?" They ask.
"Writing."
"Not again." They berate.
"I have to."
"No you don't have to. You don't have to keep writing. No one's reading, no one's listening, no one's watching, no one cares." They slander.
"I care.
I care for my words.
For they speak my silence.
I care for my phrases.
For they represent my heart.
I care for my emotions.
For they dwell my pain.
I care for my stories.
For they depict my soul.
I care....
Because I am nothing more than a piece of paper waiting to be stitched to a chapter that belongs to me, only me and not a maybe, not a what if and not a someday.
I want to be a part of a larger life without the impeded feeling of never being enough.
So,
I write...
I write until the tips of my fingers swell in anger, until the thoughts in my mind silence down and wither, until the barbs around my heart stops nicking every artery that tries to breathe life into me, until the screech of my soul whispers into the abyss of tomorrow, until the cage of my love feels like it's true self...
Until I am just me, just me on paper...
Because that's all they can truly handle."
"Why not be the same person?
Why do you pour your heart in words, in stories, in rhymes that never come true?
If the beauty of your love lies
in the depth of your eyes,
in the calmness of your touch,
in the solitude of your care,
in the cocoon of your warmth,
in the realm of your arms,
why don't you be the one you are on paper?" They prevail.
"Because I am afraid to be crumpled up and thrown in a corner... maybe in pieces, maybe in whole, but, whatever way it maybe, I won't seek the refuge of a heart that won't see my own."
"How big of a pile is a mess of your heart." They conquer.
Her eyes rove across the room
A letter of hope,
A letter of love,
A letter of care,
A letter of trust,
A letter of betrayal,
A letter of sadness,
A letter of sacrifices,
A letter of happy times,
A letter of memories,
A letter of stolen dreams,
A letter of heartbreak,
A letter of sanity,
A letter of every feeling that created a void within her, spreads across the room.
Her eyes bleed at the sight of her torn up love scattered all around but the strings of her heart continues to pen down the shreds of all that still quakes to be heard.
YOU ARE READING
Jaded Reality
PoetrySome Realities are hidden safely in cages far away from the guilt of being judged at, from being gawked at, to form a veil to hide beneath in order to look as humanly happy as possible. To hoard down dark secrets, ultimately sulking in a murk so da...
