May 9th, 2021
Sometimes I think the words I write are portrayed as something wrong, like I’m punished for just words written down. That what I put to paper, is translated in my mind and programmed to my subconscious as something to haunt, reflect back and always to be taken as literal. But wishing for it be falsified information, because I’m just speaking my mind. Thoughts aren’t always real, neither are words written down. Simply, they’re just mesmerizing lines that take form and tell a story to be untold because life becomes too much of what doesn’t have to be reeled, or made real, but more so a way to let go of an ideal that doesn’t actually have to make sense or flow with what I’m trying to think, but can be portrayed through pen and ink, just fluttering. Like eyelashes that blink as I tell myself I’m not here to sink. Because pain does sting, and it tortures with each letter I bring because I look back, look down and dissect without knowing, or wanting, or making sense of any of it, because it's the way my mind is wired. Words and images become visualizations and I know them, I can see them vividly, but I don’t mean the words that always come to mind or the sentences said because I’m human, and humanity has laid out a rule of thumb. Sometimes, thoughts are meant to float on, pass by and disappear so I write; until the harshness of the world plays and I’m dumbfound, struck in a forbidden place where my heart stains with red from the blood that drains seeping the pages in ink without words, with a mind that wishes to sing, and for ears to stop their haunting ring.