I want to write something profound. I want the words to travel through my body and onto the keys fluidly and with ease. Instead, I have to force them from my lifeless, exhausted core and pray to whatever god there might be that it makes sense. I want to write something original. I want to write these words and know that they are my own, but I do not own them. I am not the only lonely, broken heart to have written these words. At what point does it become plagiarism? I want to write my heart onto a piece of paper. I want to fold it up and lock it away, far away, from the prying eyes of predators and thieves. I want to be able to pull it out and be reminded of they way and sound it would beat, but not actually feel the cold loneliness it echoed with each strike of the drum. I want to write you out of my blood. I want to open my veins with the ball of my pen and bleed your name out of my body. To do that without draining me would be impossible. The words of your beauty and softness rest like lead inside me, unmoving and solid, threatening the airways of my sanity. I want to write an impenetrable shield to hug my body. Words of strength will slide along my skin creating the most beautiful and full body of armor to protect me from the apparitions that haunt the shadows on my walls. But I don’t know any words strong enough to ward off the demons of my night. I do not know any words sharp enough to bleed me dry, or loud enough to silence the beat of a drum. I do not know any words beautiful enough to be my own, or profound enough to silence my restless mind. I don’t know how to write myself into happiness. |
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