wordlessness is worse to watch than tears by 345652SW38, literature
Literature
wordlessness is worse to watch than tears
Dozens of languages
millions of words
billions of phrases.
But none of them are mine.
I have no means of describing how it feels.
Wordlessness
is possibly the worst sensation in the world.
I read somewhere
that when prisoners are put to death,
it’s like they’re falling asleep
while on fire.
And they can’t move,
can’t scream,
can’t speak.
I stare at the dots on the ceili
I do not understand artists. How does one begin with a blank canvas and have the organization to fill it completely? How does one have the patience to pencil in every detail, every wrinkle on his forehead, every fold in her dress? I try to be a writer so I can take notes, fragments, and paste them together later. Writing has no specific space to fill. But then, words are beautiful, but are nothing compared to colors. So I suppose it's even in the end.
I do not consider myself well-read. But in my narrow field of knowledge, it seems to me that in literature, only a few emotions are written about. Yet they're disguised, seasoned in dif
For years, mirrors were a source of fascination to me. Each time I passed a reflective surface, I would pause to stare at my face, marvel at the fact that it was really mine. It didn't seem to be possible. My thoughts always felt disembodied, disconnected from what I knew was my body, and mirrors provided evidence that they belonged to the same being. Photographs and videos of me were almost a source of entertainment. It became something like a game, to see myself recorded or reflected and try to make myself believe that the girl I was seeing was connected to the thoughts I was thinking.&
the hardest part
is where to begin.
i wilt and wear long sleeves, because
it's winter somewhere.
hurt.
blood dried onto my clothing,
a fallacy.
pretty girls on my desktop and
ugly boys in my past.
sex
is
disgusting.
lift my shirt anyway;
submission is easier.
spinning rooms and
swirling limbs.
my writing
is shit.
the words won't work,
i can't even.
i.
smash the mirror,
smash the mirror.
strangle the mockingbirds
so you don't have to hear
your own absurdity.
conform.
coat your mouth with lies
like lipstick.
wrap yourself
with stylish cellophane,
but still fear pressure
from this world where
sex sells
and you are a statistic
(manufactured),
fake factory-made smiles,
a dime a dozen.
ii.
save the children,
save the children.
cover their eyes and
don't let them see
the big
bad
wolf
inside all of us.
but our masks become
lucid,
and now from what
are we protecting
that pristine innocence?
ourselves?
iii.
stand up,
stand up.
you cannot blame society
while
music is not my savior;
poetry does not stop the
bleeding.
if vodka is in the shot glass,
ink is the chaser,
crooked handwriting
shouting about the problems
scarred on our wrists.
music has no wings
to carry me away,
and the pen is as mighty as the sword
i use to slice my skin.
there is no magic fix,
no pill to pop or flower to smoke.
there is no correct combination of words
that makes the pain go away;
i cannot prescribe you
a certain amount of ink.
all i can tell you
is that silence
magnifies the pain.
good luck.