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.

There are two things in this life that if you practice, you have to be extremely cautious while using them: Speaking and Writing.
I, as a writer, seriously thought of killing my ability to write, or perhaps just write every once in a while and avoid getting into deep, detailed or controversial articles. One of the very main drawbacks of being a writer and a thing that renders me sleepless several nights is the fact that words are as dangerous as silence, equally dangerous. They're a double-edged weapon, and if you're a writer, you have a knife or a rope right on your neck, and once you say something provoking, you unintentionally let that rope/knife slay you. Yes, responsibility that is.
The media; the tv and the internet. Those two have played an essential role in getting people so mystified that it now feels like the words people heard have cast their shadows upon their thoughts, their views and their minds until a heavy dense cloud befogged their existence, until everyone now wants to just, survive- not to mention that surviving has become a great achievement these days.
I don't think those who appear on tv realize how crucial and important their words are to the society, and like those who are and always will be silent, those who talk will always blabber, just for the sake of it. Both are diseases that have the same symptoms yet a different result.
Either way, what you write is spoken aloud, and what you speak is read in silence; it all leads to the same conclusion, but the question is, how much do you give and how much do you take? Because you can give one tiny thing yet it would provoke a whole nation, and give a thousand things that are usually wasted. Impulsiveness Vs bullshit.

Let's be honest here, people talk more than they do, so at least if you're talking and not doing, let others hear some sane words, and let yourself raise the doer, directly or indirectly, or just shut up and spare the world your never(s), spy talks and forever doomed(s).
Let the sheep decide and let the free be free, because after all you don't really care about the sheep nor the free, it's you who matters the most to yourself, and that's just how corrupted it is, always has been and always will be.

They all have been waiting in that infinite space. The talks lessen as time carries away their excitement, until the tic tocs are the unbearable sound filling the room with too much impatience. The destinations vary, sometimes even purposes in the same destination differ, too. The facial expressions shift from enthusiasm to bewilderment and mystification; words become devoid of meanings, as if they are some sort of a time machine, to waste time rather than fast-forward it.
Who controls the silent can control the poor. And who controls the rich can control the ignorant, and finally the end is one: a fine depiction of the coward crowd.

And the waiting is pointless.

©Euphoriaofbritt @ dA.