Write to be read,
Right to be wrong.
Left to be unseen,
A tragedy unfolds.
There is a weight on my mind of rocks my shoulders refuse to carry. The condensed versions of every story ever written and learned, only to be ignored. Each finale a fairytale of heartbreak with a happy ending, ““One day we will try again...”, said the heart to the brain.” One day, we will try again...
Each chapter is not unwritten yet lays without a word, only to be remembered, not to be read. Somethings more special than words; only captured in memories and warm thoughts for a rainy day. If I had written a book of love lost these pages would remain empty, hoping the stories that had ended were simply only the beginning.
To put something down worth a stroke of the eyes without batted lashes; keeping these toes unbalanced as they cross the dance floor upon eggshells of the richest ego or without a care in the world painting love across a canvas with a breath that captures the essences of something worth being seen.
Shea, 30 pages, all blank.
Maria, 60 pages, all blank.
Ana, 8 pages, ripped at the spine.
Looking through a moleskin of torn edges and a rigid spine. This book within my reach is not yet truly grasped. How any distance can separate seems impossible if the journey does not end. Sore and bruised without distain feels unjust against unripped finger tips.
The scars are the words of a story worth being told. Each indent and line a chasm of hope and miracles. To forget this pain would be the loss of something great. Each lesson written upon my body like an etching in stone. These commandments I wear give joy to the idea there is always a better day tomorrow.
As the flesh heals and the stone remains the same. Never shall we forget the journey, but only the pain.
There is no balance in a land that does not exist. There can be no opposition if it is not dreamt. Left to wander across a dictionary for the right term. Alongside the empty pages no one will ever turn; the search begins. It seems there is nothing more to gain when the search is to end.
This ink is a voice shouted on mute. The feeling is there without a sound. From every rooftop and mountain crest the world shall remain deaf. Only to be blind to the things we wish not to see. The parts of a movie we cringe and pretend to ignore. Tiny details of the plot we must rewind to comprehend.
There is no greater purpose to me, than a life with no true point. Each day a deposit to these memories to be discarded to a strippers delight. Dance they will for each note as if this night was their last. They stack on a floor to be pummeled by insecurity and crumpled as if more is better.
Silence these fingers that wish to peck at a whim.
Bind the hands of a good man so that he can do no evil.
Tell a sheep wolves do not exist.
Harbor the things you wish not to be.
Until we meet again through this landscape we are exiled. This beautiful place across a mirage of miracles. Through distant plains in an open field where dreams are born and thoughts become beautiful. The pain here still exists, with every step the distance between shrapnel seems vast, the ground is forgiving, and the breeze shares love across this deserted land.
Tommorow is a beautiful day.