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You say a hand can use a pen
to paint the heavens themselves;
that the most beautiful things cannot be bought nor forged,
but rather created by ourselves.
"Your hands are wondrous!" You often say.
"Just let the rhythm take you."
Though I fight the urge to write,
I only wish you knew
that my hands are twisted
and my mind is empty
and my heart no longer feels.
What good is a man who cannot speak
without stuttering every word?
What good is he who never speaks
yet wishes you had heard?
The knife is blunt and he longs to cut
the skin and paper silently.
Oh, I wish!
I only wish
that there was nothing wrong with me.
He who breaks the mirror
is he who lives in fear.
So distraught is he with himself
that he longs to disappear.
And what, then, of the broken shards
that circle 'round my feet?
For this worthless waste of space,
a healing he shall never meet.
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(August 2022.)
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Collection.
PoetryEvery poem that I have ever written in my designated poetry journal since the day I was eleven years old. Read at your own risk. 😎
