I write because I am voiceless. My lips sculpt words my tongue cannot verbalize. Silence falls out of my mouth and my throat burns. Yet these words infect my mind, they bloat in my head and thicken in my chest. I cannot breathe. It's a sadistic irony, really. And it's exhausting. I want to sleep them away. Submit to unconscious fantasy and let these words fall out of me.
I feel my soul contort in some metamorphosis, some return to myself- but not quite. I have no fucking clue who I am. Or what. I've wandered far from myself, and that hurts. But I could never really go back, I am not the same.
I wish to be infinite. And I write to bring to life all the things inside of me which are dead. Or nonexistent. I write because I want more. My heart and soul are consumed by a wanderlust and it's not enough. I want this whole fucking world, and it's still not enough.
The world is not enough.
YOU ARE READING
Restless Things
Poetry"I didn't realize what damage heat can do To flesh so bare So I poured you out all over me Until I was undone And shaking But after the fire has gone All that's left is ash and wilted skin So now I know Better" -The Things You Left Behind (Poetry, P...
