Deepest most Desperate Desire

I Am Not A Writer

Pain
A horrid emotion for everyone
But for me you see it's a man
Who would touch my skin
Burning it into ashes
And what I do?
I write.

Then it would kiss my pink, dried lips
Until they turn wet, scarletty
And what I do?
I write.

The pain then would run it's bony, sharp fingers through my hair
Scratching every string out of it's roots
And what do I do?
I write.

And they call me a writer.
No dear you are wrong.
You see this world
It have tied my tongue.
All my familiars scarred me
Into a puppet.

Yelling out the agony
Was a child's act to them
Oh mother!
Only if you hadn't mocked my heart
Oh sister!
Only if you had understood what I meant
Then maybe, then maybe
I would have shown you what I write.

I am like a new born toddler now
Full of emotions yet no tongue to speak
So that's why I write
Since there's no way out.

I am not a writer
My every heartbeat sings a word
I have wooven each beat into a thread
And slowly worked my way through the fabric.
You see that's how I write.

I am not a writer by hobby
I am being forced
Since there isn't anyone to listen to my appeals
I hear the paper sympathize
So I write
I hope that maybe the paper hears,
Maybe it feels .

I am not a writer
Words play itself on my bruised lips
Yet they never come out
The scarlet lobes open in search of hope
That maybe it would speak
But with every freedom
Blood drips itself through the corners.

There's where the fingers come to life.
Delicate, bruised, trembling fingers
The pen plays on it's tunes
Each nerve prints a word
Letter by letter the fabric is designed
That's how my poem is born.

Yet I deny to be a writer
Coz a writer is a talented song
That reach hearts and never fades
But my poems aren't eternal
Since it's carved with the man's name
The man that have bruised my lips,
The man that have burned my skin
The very same man that I choose to call pain.

My poems aren't eternal
Because I choose to keep it that way
My poems aren't eternal
Because no one understands the soul behind the body
They have appreciated the beauty
But no one sees further.
No one searches the deep secrets.

Poems deserve to be announced
Breathe into the the earth's core
But here I am
The world knows what I write
But my mom hardly acknowledges
The sun setting in my black orbs.

And where wine intoxicates a man
I get drunk into coffee every night
Each sip flows into my brain
Commanding my nerves to write.
Each sip forbids my drooping eyes.
Pleading me to not die.

But I still deny the title of a writer,
Because I am not talented
Because I am not eternal
Because I am not a song
Yet if you choose to call me one
I won't stop you.

Even now I will yell silently through my pen
That my man makes me write
I still yell till my ears bleed
My man is nothing but PAIN.

~Alia.A/writer