1- Questions that will free you might have answers that will imprison you again.

2- Not everyone talks in words.

3- Black is not always a color.

4- Sometimes you write a thousand words to explain one meaning that everyone else failed to explain, too.

5- Dance with your shadow; it's the only way you'd make peace with your true self.

6- You'll get angry with the wrong people, you must someday.

7- Your brain is a double-edged weapon.

8- Have you ever given something without truly, truly, wanting something back?

9- The only way to risk being you is to risk not being you.

10-Sometimes it's best to shut up.

Before you finish your statement

I was already choking in mine because

you couldn't let me say the truth.

And I stumbled as you thrive

in defeat

Sooner, you'll be like the wind that blows with a famous aftermath. Your shouts will be heard from a distance yet not when you're shoulder-to-shoulder with humanity. Sooner, your words will be devoid of breaths. And you'll forget, you'll forget that oneday they saved you. Because the next day, they killed you.

Sooner, you'll raise your head up high and find infinite nothingness above you, and then you'll remember that you used a whole constellation to make wishes that never attained to beating. You'll wish you had freed those dreams for someone to at least grant them half a life. You'll want to grasp them dead while their echo would still be pulsating. You'll just wish you'd done something. Anything.

Your ideas will melt beneath the impulsiveness of sentences and the rigidness of indifference. And you'll be sleeping on pillows of simple-mindedness, suffocated by blankets of clichés. You'll pretend, but pain will always manifest itself on your empty shoulders, heavily.

Hear me. Words will prove themselves dominent over you, when once you had them and the power of silence. And you'll weep words, bleed silence, but you'll never learn until you unlearn and teach yourself the right direction of your wind.

Jan.18th. 2012. 12:11 AM

Pablo Neruda

Perhaps not to be is to be without your being,

without your going, that cuts noon light

like a blue flower, without your passing

later through fog and stones,

without the torch you lift in your hand

that others may not see as golden,

that perhaps no one believed blossomed

the glowing origin of the rose,

without, in the end, your being, your coming

suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life,

blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze:

and it follows that I am, because you are:

it follows from ‘you are’, that I am, and we:

and, because of love, you will, I will,

We will, come to be.

**Regardless of how romantic this poem is, I still find it brilliant!

Please forgive me, Sir

For having taken an empty oath,

And instead of telling your truth,

I told my own.

I swam in a sea of it-never-happend's,

Nearly drowned myself by denial -

And yet,

Grabbed my forearm; you

I was intoxicated by the sweetness

Of your conspiring tongue,

In the darkness of illuminated space

You smiled like the devil.

Kill me, Sir -

Outwardly, I'd be bleeding

Whilst inwardly, I'm too,

too strong to fall.

**Imagine yourself beaten and in a bed in the hospital and the asshole that beat you comes to visit you and takes pictures with you so it'd look like he cares. Just imagine

I need a brave holder of words -

Words that crumble inside my pen

And never survive in my notes

Because

Maybe I've got the world-saving line

With the incapability to keep it beating.

Just maybe.

See how they do it? They move colors in your life and re-sort them like a huge puzzle. Like a game. Like a fun riddle. They stop time in your watches until the moments disappear into the darkness of hours, and slowly, you've got only events in your memory. Time never has and never will matter, unless they be defeated. Forgotten is time.

They push your words into silence, not knowing the power that lies within silence itself. They evoke the winds of fear so that angry seasons would burst, clutching at your being to destroy that moments when you thought silence mattered. Because neither words nor silence will. Unless you expose the idea of their being. Silence is as empty as words.

The fear of insecurity will be your skin. They will discriminate against you. They will haunt you and perhaps win. They will publicly execute your bravery, for it was too cheap to be kept, and even if it wasn't, no chance for survival with that skin of yours. Unless you free your soul. You are a mere slave to their filthy power.

You will. They will. And only the bystander wins, in the cave of fear.

They run in the depth of your being

And disappear in the shallowness of life

Until they are a

Shadow

In your core.

A ghostly grayish being

And happy, they linger.

Here

Pour my thoughts over for me, for I cannot bear their breath in my ink. But write them down carefully, don't slip because they might kill you, and save me. Don't slip because their echo would be so immense that the universe will have to bury them in your depth, and the emptiness in my soul would never return so I can write again. (Or let you write for me)

Yes, I'm selfish. I don't want to be the writer of my own destiny because it hurts. It hurts to feel yet it hurts to be numb. I cannot bear the sound of my words, they feel too ugly for me, they don't feel like they're mine, but I'm the only one that could possibly create them -- oh denial, save me or kill me.

Write my words for me because I don't want to be part of my own history, I just want to forget it happened so I can dwell again in the cave of security away from the tidal waves of agitated oceans.

Instead I'll dance. I'll dance until I can no longer stomp my feet and touch the ground. And I'll sing there about victory, I'll sing but with a low voice so that monsters won't resent me. I'll sing alone while you'd be busy writing the words that I once thought would save me, or you. Or us.

And I'll unravel my silence every time you're near, I'll unlearn so I can learn the same lesson again. I'll forget so I can remember again and never have to feel the same. But I won't write.

I won't write because my words in your hands say more than I can write. Perhaps my ink was burdened with my too much weakness that it faded away in time.

Please write it down for me, because you write it perfectly, and I? I cannot be but the shadow of your words, which are mine, and I, while you portray, fade with the frailty that took over me.

Author's word: Please note that I haven't been great with inspiration and words lately. This is a half general and a half personal piece.