i think i won’t be able to make it
to a stage surrounded by a lot of people
wanting to hear me scream on the
microphone or cuss at them.
i kept a pinch of salt in my purse,
and when i see someone who happens to
live the very same life i am asking for,
i eat one grain.
that was my dream too,
which i eventually learned to let go,
because i know that it won’t be easy
for someone like me.
everybody else has something to start with,
and i don’t.
i am standing at the rock bottom,
all bruised and dirty after gathering stones
that i thought i can step on to like a ladder,
but i always end up falling again.
then i will try to build a better staircase
once again, but still fail after failing.
i am not privileged enough to
make a statue out of my breaths,
unlike how they easily establish their names
and stick their wacky pictures wherever
they want to put it,
because they always have someone else
to help them do that.
i do have some people too,
but they always tell me to do
something else instead of
writing shits
that don’t
make sense
at all.
but they can’t blame me,
because this is what i love doing.
writing nonsense things
makes me feel like
i need to hold on still
because i have to finish this fucking book
before i die.
this is the only thing that i can call mine.
i no longer care about not being recognized
for this,
i just need to finish writing this so that i can
finally decide whether i should take my
own life, or write another nonsense one.
YOU ARE READING
Found This Book Somewhere In The Forest
Poetry"Talk to my soul later midnight, when the moon's at its peak. That's the only way of communication that I know, because my physical lips will stutter if I told you about how I want to tear my human skin apart and go out."
