That's all that matters to this world we live in.
How many people have you impressed?
How much have you earned today?
How high have you earned in this test?
It's always 'how, how, how', and it's never
'because, because, because'.
Why can't you fucking provide
an answer to your own damn question?
Doesn't it feel like these numbers are
murdering you on the inside?
Maiming your insides and pounding
until the blood pools up and you drown?
They can't ask you how long you'll live;
from how high you've climbed up,
even the physics of air pressure
can't determine if it'll pop your brain.
If it's wrong to say a word,
if it's wrong to complain,
if it's wrong to cry out,
maybe it's wrong to breathe too.
The choking cry of eagles
as they are being shot down
is similar to that of a restrained cry
of a girl's lament in her own bedroom.
It matters only to a few,
but not everyone will care
if a few eagles or foxes
are shot down in the forest.
A forest in which the constant struggle
of the prey and predator continues on.
It rages equally and unequally; and that
itself is the definition of equilibrium.
The numbers, the numbers, the numbers.
If you can count how many times you've
killed yourself on the inside or how many times
you've cried--you'll pass the counter of misery.
It'll always be the numbers--remember that.
YOU ARE READING
Entendre
PoetryAn expression or burst of emotions, a place of solace from suicide and depression. May be an art or a form of liberation-probably a loss of sanity driven from hungry memories; to understand and listen to the stories around us, a passion-driven delir...
