Waiting For The Sunlight,
waiting for the sunlight,
sky hangs heavy,
clotted with clouds,
every minute a drip
into the vast puddle
of waiting.
they told to run—
Just run.
how to escape
when the legs are tied
to the same place,
to the same people,
to the same whatevers.
walking in circles,
feet tracing the same path
to more waiting,
more silence.
in the room
where the walls are made of promises
that never came true.
The words, they fall
from mouths like wet leaves,
unraveling slowly,
and I cannot remember
when I stopped believing them,
but now
they stick to my skin.
Expectations—
they were something bright once,
something I could grasp,
but now they are shards
in the back of my throat,
a choking on what I cannot swallow.
I am the person
who fails them,
who fails myself,
and still I stand,
to crack the earth open
and let me breathe again.
The faces around me
are nothing but mirrors
reflecting silence.
They take,
but give nothing
but their own crumbling edges,
and I keep trying
to hold them together
as if my hands aren’t already
full of cracks.
Every touch is a weight,
a slow erosion of my own spirit,
and still,
I stay.
I stay because it is easier
than the weight
of nothing.
But in this stillness,
In this place
where no one grows,
I am caught—
and I wait,
for the moment
to swallow me whole.
More Posts from Fleshed-outofmetaphors and Others
Touching your hands make me feel at home and lost at the same time. I will never know which one I like more,which one takes me far away from myself and closer to you.
“I don’t want you to go.”
sky by Vincent Van Gogh
What has made me speak less with each passing day? I watch the dragonfly escape the lizard by inches and I decide to stay. I want my words and my life to escape death. So every time I try exaggerating my empathy , the insouciance, and the ability to extract only the bad side of my words and my life makes me edge closer to silence. I do not want to throttle my words to death.
Found your words beautiful !
Thank you.
I can't make you understand. I can't make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I can't even explain it to myself.
— Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis
““I opened my mouth, almost said something. Almost. The rest of my life might have turned out differently if I had. But I didn’t.””
—
Reading was my escape and my comfort, my consolation, my stimulant of choice: reading for the pure pleasure of it, for the beautiful stillness that surrounds you when you hear an author’s words reverberating in your head.
(via minuty)
