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.
