Silent Child

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  • Haven't posted in a bit so here's a longer one than usual...

    I want to write of a lover
    But I know I’ll never possess the words to.
    The sweet little arrangements of letters
    And sounds are always just out of reach.
    They are taunting me wherever I go.
    I hate it.
    I can never escape it.
    Shall I be confined here forever?

    A splash of yellow,
    Maybe an orange?
    Bright, desaturated, underexposed
    Against the backdrop
    Of a brown, wooden counter.
    Be careful love, best to not get a splinter.
    I should stop rambling and play my hand.
    I’ve got a pair of twos, tell me then
    How much do I owe?
    Is it my heart, my head, or something other?
    What would you like from me?
    I have a debt so what’s the amount?
    A two of hearts and a two of spades,
    There may be some symbolism here,
    But as the looser all sentiment is lost on me.

    Is it a way of saying I loved too much?
    This is devastating,
    I thought love was plentiful,
    I thought love was infinite,
    I thought love was just,
    And holy, and pure, and never wrong,
    How could I have loved too much?
    I’m just a child, I’m not supposed to know
    The rules of the game that grown-ups play.
    The world has no meaning; it’s all a stage play
    You and I are actors and actresses putting on costumes and masks for others to see
    The world has no meaning unless you and I promise
    To give it one and hold it still until the end of our days
    The world has no meaning; it isn’t real

    It’s all fake
    I’m not sad anymore
    I’m just numb.
    I don’t know how to melt this ice
    Or break it,
    Sorry I’m so awkward,
    I’ve never really been great with introductions
    or first impressions.
    I’ve never really been good at saying
    “Hello, I am who I am, who do you happen to be?”
    I’ve never really been good at describing myself,
    Perhaps giving my persona a caption,
    I’m not really intriguing,
    Every time I try, it either comes off
    As bragging
    Or self-doubt.
    I wonder when I’ll know who I am.
    I wonder when I’ll start taking my own advice.
    I wonder when I’ll become myself.
    I wonder when I’ll love you, and meet you out in the rain, and think “yes, I know who I am now”
    I wonder when I’ll allow myself to say tainted words around the pure of heart.
    I wonder when I’ll know who you are.
    I wonder when I’ll finally understand what she meant
    When she said “This rain keeps the beat,
    My step keeps the beat,
    The sizzling of your scrambled eggs is a music,
    The pouring of coffee is a music,
    The spring of the toast is a music,
    And you, taking all of these things for granted,
    Become the thing you hate the most:
    Someone who destroys the music.”
    I say what I am
    Though I am unsure myself
    You tell me that you love me
    And in the ides of doubt, you ask if the care is reciprocated.
    Of course it is;
    I wouldn’t be able to tell you these things if it wasn’t.
    Of course I see the beauty in the world
    It’s what we call our home.

    The world has no meaning; it’s all a stage play
    You and I are actors and actresses putting on costumes and masks for others to see
    The world has no meaning unless you and I promise
    To give it one and hold it still until the end of our days
    The world has no meaning; it isn’t real
    It’s all fake
    Look in the mirror, darling,
    Look at your reflection.
    That is someone worth saving.
    Do you note the smile?
    Her smile is beautiful,
    She should take pride in it.
    Prometheus did quite a fine job,
    I think.

    I’m cold, but then again, when am I not?
    My hands are ice cubes,
    And you are a sunburn.
    I like holding your hand because
    It feels like holding a cup of hot cocoa,
    My favorite sweet treat in my favorite season.
    It feels like home.
    Won’t you take me there?
    I am a reader but a writer,
    A lover but a fighter,
    An artist but a poet,
    All this to say that I sculpt
    Masterpieces with my hands
    And still find time to write their captions.

    I hold your hand
    As we walk down the hallways
    You say how pretty my eyes look today
    I blush and look away from you.
    Truth be told:
    You were the reason
    I decide to show them at all.

    I don’t know what to write
    Only that I want to.
    I want to paint beautiful pictures
    In your mind, and no one else’s.

    A touch of your favorite shade of green,
    My favorite bit of royal blue
    The touch of lush green that reminds
    Me of our love together
    I'm feeling a certain way against my parents so here's a second one for today...

    You will never know the feelings of being me
    And that’s fine, I don’t ask that of you
    I just ask that you not tear down
    What makes me happy,
    And betray my trust.
    I found comfort with you, odd as it may seem now,
    Because of the freedom from the restraints of my mother and father
    All I find with them now are a hostile entities
    Who don't care about my feelings
    Only that I seem “normal”
    Or “appropriate”
    Or “conventional”
    Or any fancy words you want to use
    To mean “being you is wrong”
    Or “being you is shameful and
    I wish you wouldn’t trust me with who you truly are
    I wish you would hide it away”
    When it's all an effort to control me
    Silent Child
    Silent Child
    I realize i switched who i referred to in this one quite a bit, starting out with calling my parents "you" at first, then changing it but... i dont have the current mindset to change it
    So then, tell me who wins:
    The sword or the way of the empty hand?
    A sword has no power over a fist, I suspect,
    But that blade just might do it.
    I bet on the hilt just to get cut by the blade,
    And left ruined,
    And penniless
    On the side of the road
    As they trickled out of the house.

    I write constantly because I’m prolific,
    Or maybe I write constantly because I’m Icarus.
    Who can say, but me?
    Well, here’s the truth:
    I decide not to.
    You shall never know,
    My final act of retribution.
    I will revel in this rebellion.
    Hold my hand,
    Hold eye contact,
    Let you get lost in the
    blue ocean of my eyes.
    They aren’t quite like the
    twilight zone,
    Nor are they the
    color of the skies.
    They’re desaturated, almost
    Much different than the
    teal green that you think when you hear my name.
    They are the conflicting and crashing grey of the tides
    And still yet, that’s not what you
    love most of me.
    My messy,
    long blue hair, darker than my eyes
    But brighter than the
    sun’s light reflecting off that beautiful ocean in the dead of night.
    We met in the dead of summer, you gave me comfort
    When outside was unbearably hostile.
    You sit there listening to, or perhaps reading, this poem
    Where I speak tiny little words
    And you think you know their meaning,
    You think you know all meaning,
    But you don’t.
    And I don’t.
    And then comes the question: who does?
    The answer might shock you, the question isn’t real, it’s a trick
    An illusion with an eye
    To see how you might react
    There is nothing here,
    No society remains intact
    Everything is false
    There is no meaning

    But you.
    Everything is relative to you.
    You, acting all important
    And in your own head, you are.
    You are in mine, too.
    But that’s just because I can’t be me
    Without first not being you.
    I love you like I love my favorite book;
    You make me happy,
    And I’m a better person because I found you.
    I know for a fact that the moment we part
    The sky will rain, and flood the earth,
    And never stop until the end of days.
    The wind will howl
    And earth would be engulfed
    In a fit of emotions not fit for anyone
    As pure as you or me.
    The sky will sob because it lost a connection
    It was never meant to.
    The world has no meaning outside of the fake societies we build up
    To play pretend with consequences unreal
    The world has no meaning if we don’t give it one
    Consequences don’t matter if we can agree that the actions are fake
    The world has no meaning if it’s cause doesn’t either
    Situations only produce consequences when importance is places on them
    The world has no meaning, none at all
    We were indoctrinated as children to thinking that it does but that’s false
    The world has no meaning other than a setting where
    One plus one equals two; where
    I met you under the pale blue sky, in that garage by the old shipyard
    I am content in the knowledge that I will never write anything
    That amounts to something more than
    A loose pile of metaphors and concepts
    With no bearing on what we say is real.
    What I truly lack is the words to say
    “If I see you every day for the rest of my life
    I love you
    And if I don’t see you again until the day I die
    I love you”
    In any meaningful way
    Riddled with subtlety,
    Dressed up in beautiful skirts,
    Completed with a set of complementary pleats.
    Our friends will think we’re cool.
    They’ll be right about
    you, of course,
    But I’m
    I don’t know why I’m
    However, I still hide away my
    I know that they’ll still
    love me.
    Something about saying
    “I’ve been lying to you for a certain amount of
    That’s laced between my words
    Ties a number of knots in my
    No, I should use words less
    sharp and refined than stomach.
    Tummy is it.
    I am still a child, after all.
    You are, too,
    What is poetry but a fancy way of saying
    “I love you in a way we will only hope to describe”?
    What is art but a fancy way of showing
    “Your beauty is unparalleled, save for Aphrodite herself”?
    I might be Achilles.
    I might be Patroclus.
    You will never know.
    I guess I should touch on it here, in this foreword
    Put forward, a jumble of sounds I think is
    And hope you do too.
    The theme of
    ❤️love❤️ and strife, then the connection and war between, was an allusion
    To some Greek philosopher named Empedocles.
    Something about the elements and their isolation and lack thereof.
    Something only someone smarter would understand.
    I am lying in the ditch, and you are too.
    Only difference is that I’m looking at the ✨
    And you’re listening to me describe them.
    I doubt I will ever know
    What people mean when they say
    This world is
    kill, or be killed,
    But I refuse to become a
    The thumping of the piano keys,
    While I sit in the
    sun’s warmth,
    Playing with my toys,
    Feels like home,
    And I think my legs have
    The way to get back there.
    Chaos followed by calm waters,
    Serenity followed by shambles,
    Writing followed by reading,
    Poetry followed by art,
    Love followed by strife,
    Connection followed by war,
    Me followed by you,
    You followed by me,
    A letter written to you,
    A response composed by you,
    A description of how important you happen to be,
    I’ll let you in on a secret:
    The human experience was supposed to be last.
    A falsity was written first.
    I was never supposed to be a poet.
    But here we are, I suppose.
    The most beautiful parts of the human body
    Are the collar bone, and shoulder blades.
    The collar bone, the
    To the garden we call a neck,
    Decorated with
    roses where kisses should go,
    And the shoulder
    blades, trimmed wings
    Tied up in skin in a way that reminds us
    That we are flightless
    angels, doomed to walk with our feet.
    They are chains, to the
    ground, to love, to being human.
    Or more importantly, to
    not being an angel.
    Rewrite the story but once, only to fix typos, never ideas.
    What is the story?
    Explain it to me once more please, no matter what you say, I just can’t wrap my head around it.
    Is there something
    wrong with me?

    I hope not, for both our sakes.
    Silent Child
    Silent Child
    Honestly, that's fair. But the story could have a purpose other than one viewpoint. So though someone may take "murder is good" from the story, someone else could understand it's entertainment. Or another could believe something else entirely like the power of friendship triumphs all. It really depends on how you relay the messages and which one people choose to believe.

    This made a lot more sense in my head, lol
    So basically Death of the Author, right?
    Silent Child
    Silent Child
    Essentially, yes
    Here I am.
    Do your worst.
    Become everything evil.
    Become the only good.
    Become a Shakespeare or a failure.
    Do your worst.
    I’ll bear it.
    Your destiny is in your hands, I put it there.
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