There's no use in alluding anymore. This world wants names, wants facts wants intricate details--its not enough to blanket experiences under the guise of the storyteller and the stories he told. No longer can I moonlight simultaneously as the teller, the doer and the ones it was done too. Perhaps the point has been reached where I either develop an alter-ego or pour out this heart into cookie shaped pieces of life; each one fashioned into a poem. Each one baring just a little too much.
Or so that's what she told me.
I play safe. I will admit. Because its a little too scary to tell you exactly what I mean. Isn't it easier to give you an opportunity to think...of what I'm trying to say without blitzkrieg-ing you with answers.
What ever happened to mystery? I wonder..apparently it doesn't fare so well in words.
The world wants names. Wants facts--and what if I don't know how to give those? What if those names and facts--changed as they might be--don't want to be given?
What if the world isn't ready for the things I have to say; the things that will undoubtedly, eventually come to the surface--
despite all the fight that's left
in me.
Raw words don't want to be read. We want to be buried under molehills of imagery--of nothing.
We want to suffocate just so you can pretend that nothing. Really. Happened.
Raw words want to dilute themselves with baking soda and trips to the pharmacy; to wash off the filth that shows them for what they really are.
Raw words...like carrots in a vegetable patch. They are what they are, nobody would dare to question that. Nobody, though, would eat them either.
There is a battle coming on. It looms closer every time I pick up a pen, and fades a little when I refuse to write the words that wander through my mind.
The battle will rage and in the end one side will die;
my pen will be silent, or I will.