“I am not a finished poem, and I am not the song you’ve turned me into. I am a detached human being, making my way in a world that is constantly trying to push me aside, and you who send me letters and emails, wouldn’t even recognize me if you saw me walking down the street where l live tomorrow for l am not a poem.
I am tired and worn out and the eyes you would see would not be painted or inspired but empty and weary and l am not the life of your party who sings and has glorious words to speak for I don’t speak much at all and my voice is raspy and unsteady from unhealthy living and not much sleep and I only use it when I sing and l always sing too much or not at all and never when people are around because they expect poems and symphonies and l am not a poem but an elegy at my best…
And It’s the beating of my heart. The way I lie awake, playing with shadows slowly climbing up my wall. The gentle moonlight slipping through my window and the sound of a lonely car somewhere far away, where I long to be too, I think.
It’s the way I thought my restless wandering was over, that I’d found whatever I thought I had found, or wanted, or needed, and I started to collect my belongings. Build a home. Safe behind the comfort of these four walls and a closed door. Because as much as I tried or pretended or imagined myself as a part of all the people out there, I was still the one locking the door every night. Turning off the phone and blowing out the candles so no one knew I was home. ’cause l was never really well around the expectations of my personality and I wanted to keep to myself. And because I haven’t been very impressed lately. By people, or places, or the way someone said she loved me and then slowly changed her mind.”
by Suspicious-Neck1822