My words are weapons filled with pain and rage
as if I am a shakespearean actor shouting his lines
down the rake of the evening stage.
Your words stick to me like cobwebs and remain
as if there was nothing else to what you said,
nothing but the mindless refrain in my brain.
Words,
like all the things I ever wanted to tell you anyway,
like all the times I wanted to show you that you
mattered to me more than the words I had to say.
Paint, painting by the numbers 1 being blue
2, being the very essential color that I must
define as you.
Art and craft, who I am and who I am with
as if to suggest that my portfolio will be determined
by one humongous vainglorious sieve?
My words fall down from my mind to this blog post
to lay there in full view of my own silence, all my
time, all of your sins, the machina in my ghost.
Words,
In the end, they will carry me through the day
in the end, they will marry and bury us together
as if our scene has run out, now bow, now stay.
Words are my own version of the truth
memories, passages, pages, all the present trouble
unkempt, chaotic, honest and uncouth
this is what I was like when I will grow old
or at very least, so I am told.
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