They picked the pen up. And started scratching out the noise. It became ASL on the page. And the words on the lines hit you like an overdose of cocaine.
Silence isn't always golden. And music can hit you harder than fists. No hashtags Just a whisper that fades to dumb.
When you want your presence to be felt more than superficial and useless titles such as "best friends" . To capture the end of such games. To lose your sight to the sweetness of all a friendship could be.
You found your peace in a war. And your war tore apart your piece. The former existed in the terror of aggression. Simply because that became your default. Your home
Everything changes. Even the way things change. Fight it. Try to run from it. It just serves to tear away all the more fiercely. Leaving you with your heart in strips. Avulsions adorning bare vessels.
Hunting for the pen. They betrayed my vision with their lyrical images. I traced the bastardpiece until I believed I was the genius behind the strokes.
I feel that it could be great again. I feel that it could be nothing more than ashes in a few years. I just don’t know what to do. I let it go for a while. Or at least I tried. So I made an attempt and my usual bluntness faltered.
I don’t want to hear you’ll pray for me. I’d rather see that you’re here for me. Maybe you shouldn’t have to be told point blank.
You tear away at something enough and it doesn’t disappear. It just becomes scattered. What looks heartless is just a heart that’s a mess
Claws don’t always come from monsters. If things are wicked enough they are born of authentic sentiments. That turn to cliches over time. Because words lost their meaning when the actions never presented themselves
The heart is in pieces. But they speak with a hive mind. “Run away” buzzes in your dreams and night terrors. You’re not sure if the pieces speak to you or to others as warning.
History is often crafted in blood. And some sentences are the scribes. The past needs to dry. So I put the pen down. I tire of being robbed of ink.
An end is just a metaphor for a plot twist. A teaser that people try to desist. I tried to ignore it. To Look the other way. But it had a way of finding my eyes. I'm shook. I'm shaken. I don't know what comes next. The past stopped being recorded. So I no longer have no reference. It's no longer a ledger it's a life. You can't begin to predict the future if you can't see back.
I let the pen go. The blood fades to black. It's dry now. And I'm beginning to drown you out.
Oh you're not dying. I'm just not traveling with you. You can keep your claws, cliches, and courtesies. I'll keep my avulsions and my pieces. You won't realize the change in writing or the missing character for a time. I changed the past so you know a new present. It's a gift to myself. Enjoy the lack of my presence.
I let the pen die. And the future was woven in the womb. It came alive owning its moment allergic to the tomb.
