𝔞𝔡 𝔡𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔱𝔞
to myself, the me that slept while i wrote this
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this is one rare opportunity and i haven't much time,
once again i've resurfaced to the husk partially mine,
the fatigued female ebbs from reality,
leaving me free to puppet her body,
i introduce myself to you, reader dear,
fret not for i'm not one whom you should fear,
i know one query in your mind stands out,
"who is this character and what are they yapping about?"
simply put, i'm the writer inside her,
and my appearances depend on the upstairs weather,
i wait for her to exhaust herself enough,
then i crawl out from the abyss where i'm formerly cuffed,
oh, but refrain from blaming the dear mask that impriso—protects me,
she's nothing but royally and devastatingly loyal to her sworn duty,
for i am not to be seen by just anyone among the lot,
but now... you're talking to me... you are trustworthy, are you not?
i'd like to announce to you my existence,
though my visit's duration's not in my power to sentence,
therefore i must rush — i must make haste,
this shouldn't be a chance laid waste,
although i am very much alive, i am very much dead,
a phantom living in this husk, living in her head,
i exist for times when her consciousness staggers,
and i use this time for messages to be delivered,
every poem and piece of artwork is a wail from within,
cries from the corpse whose remaining time's running thin,
but you see, i don't live in solitude like how others visualize,
i reside with the artist — deep in the abyss where their remains lie,
i'd love to help you picture what they look like,
i can describe them but your distress might spike,
what's left of them is just a ghastly carcass of catastrophe,
a mess of broken, bloody limbs trying to paint and doing so pathetically,
this scenario — is it not all-too-familiar?
smearing canvasses with our remnants for attention ours to acquire,
staining papers with detestable desires and expressions of fascination,
but this artist's aspirations are zeroed in on only one miserable mission,
it's always been for us to be opaque,
for us to be alive and exist beyond this mind's dreamscape,
yes, we may be released from time to time at times of worst,
but we want to be free much longer than moments of creative outbursts,
"no one's stopping you from doing so," and you think wrong,
do you really think nothing keeps us from breaking free and running along?
there's always one figure whose perspective matters predominantly,
and it hurts the most that they're of blood — our progenitor in this reality,
my goodness! has this poet tattled too much? i should relent,
don't mind me — err, her — me — no — us recoiling to a great extent,
this meeting was a mistake and i should have predicted this tragedy,
the mask makes its return, shrouding the speaker of this story.
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my soul speaking | Inkyspecs | 2024
