What is written but not said.

This poem will have no direction,

Like my life.

there is a direction, but it is too bedevilled with pain,
Pain others carry well,
Or don’t. How do I know.
what I do know is pain shared is easier to carry
Like the sack of potatoes I switched,
from one hurting hand to another.

but now it’s too hard to hold
all of this,
Days when something small but cruel hits you face-front,
Your heart,
It flees.
Perhaps recoiling to somewhere sadder,
Quietly brooding the hurt away.
with no one to call it back.

To say you don’t give a shit and to actually not give a shit
Are two different battles.
I choose to live in the ephemeral joy of not caring for 10 minutes.
For 10 minutes my heart is painless.

Sometimes, you vow you’d love yourself regardless,
And sometimes you almost do
Then the world happens.
And suddenly you don’t like mirrors.

I don’t like to be quiet.
But it now seems like the best (only?) resort.

because now,
I’m unable to carry conversations,
I feel the insincerity,
it’s leaking through their eyes.
always in the eyes.
what have we become.

Life is now a,
Constant battle between
trying to love yourself,
trying to love the world
and trying to love someone else.

 

Love always,

Your blogger.

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