What happened to my conception of time
When did minutes turn into days, into weeks
Every moment losing magic, losing shine
Can I mimic the real
Is the present mine
It used to feel like an ocean to cross
Like every passage took a toll on our lives
And every wave was a precious mime
Where thought wouldn't rule
Where emotion would thrive
I started speaking to pages
Started cutting through silence,
Through lonely rooms
For a while you felt alive
For a while I cut through my own
Designated gloom
Cut through the self-assigned
The realigned
The intertwined
I turned to another kind of journey
A journey that was only mine
I gave it false meaning
The original purpose
Redesigned
And I found I can't go on
Not when insights are based on lies
Everything artificial, even the most authentic
Of details, wandering my mind
I can't go on, if I don't speak to pages
If I don't speak to silence
They're the only ones who aren't too tired to listen
The only ones willing to accept my flood of words
Sometimes I have to speak into the moment
Sometimes I feel forced to share my voice
And they don't judge me
Although they never answer me
Or encourage me
Or really hear me
What happens to all the things I can't channel anymore
To all those fragile whispers that I used to share with you
What happens to my misdirected loneliness
That I knew I bought myself into
What happens when I speak
And all I want to do is listen
All I want to do is listen to you
But all I can do is speak
Speak until my voice is sore
Sore from all those things
Unchanneled before
"I can't go on, if I don't speak to pages
ReplyDeleteIf I don't speak to silence
They're the only ones who aren't too tired to listen
The only ones willing to accept my flood of words
Sometimes I have to speak into the moment
Sometimes I feel forced to share my voice
And they don't judge me
Although they never answer me
Or encourage me
Or really hear me"
so TRUE. I have to write, I just have to but on the other hand it makes me feel so, so lonely. because those pages never tell me what to do or what is right or what I should do. But even if they can break me, I won't abandon them. Living without writing would break me as well.
but I wonder, what is the real meaning behind this? I can't really pinpoint it though I'm sure that there really is something huge between the lines.
Indeed, it's not a choice for me. Writing is how I deal with things. Sometimes you don't need the pages to talk back to you, you only need to get the words out of your head, at least for me.
ReplyDeleteThe poem is about missing someone who isn't here anymore and who can't give you advice like they used to. So instead I speak by writing things down, by speaking to the silence. And it's almost like that someone is here.
well that is also true.
ReplyDeleteoh, now I see it! ^^
Glad it helped^^ <3
ReplyDelete