Sometimes i get mad at cliches.
I wish i could feel butterflies in my stomach, a blush in my cheeks, a lump in my throat, an inability to produce words.
I pick up a pen and i dont feel like i could write away my pain.
But with each sweep of the ink i find myself writing about the stone in my stomach and the inexplicable melancholy i feel at 3am when i stare at my ceiling.
And i realise that im mad at cliches for giving me words to describe my pain.
Pretending i can write it away.
When in fact i cant.
Im mad at cliches for so perfectly describing what it feels like to feel.
When it should be so private.
And im mad at cliches for doing it so well.
YOU ARE READING
The Weight of my Guillotine
PoetryThis is a collection of poems, excerpts and short stories I write. Read at your own discretion.
