That was nothing or maybe everything I chose to bury
A lifelong
ache hidden underneath the ruins of what once I called SELF.
I can
hardly say what happened, yet the scars slither across the skin,
Shameless
marks of battles left unfinished, my strength overestimated.
I have
become the monster I once hid from everyone,
As hard
as stone, too emotionless, too heavy to be held.
Unable to
accept myself, feeling distant from what I have grown up into,
Never brave
enough to ask, staying blind to my inner darkness,
Leaving it
to overtake me, so afraid to stop.
…
I decided
to escape the prison, yet invisible walls surround me,
No caged
windows – only shattered glass around me,
No chains
hugging my arms, yet chained and numb, lying on the dirty ground.
I turned
my back on that reflection, yet abandoned is my favourite state.
From whom
am I still running – from the beasts I met or the person I have become?
Have I mistaken
the emptiness for freedom,
Trying to
convince what is left of me that a heart no longer beating is better than a
broken one?
Have I ever
been the prisoner or have I become the director of the final cut of my destruction?
Directing
the movies of a happiness that never comes, composing songs that were never
played or sung,
Always mistaking
silence for that precious inner peace, yet I starve for a quick warm touch and
whispered conversation.
Rehearsing
yet again the forgotten plays written on dusty papers, art I never dared call
my own.
A leading
actress wearing a thousand faces, barely recognizing which one was her own,
Still avoiding
being the focal point when it is time for the final frame.
The diaries
of my existence are still read in front of empty halls,
Every song
written is a confession left unfinished, never polished, always raw,
Every chorus
– a desperate cry carefully hidden as the sweetest lullaby.
Have I become
the villain of my own story, rewriting every line to justify the damage I have
done?
Or maybe
I am still in front of that mirror, countless faces – everything is just a
fucking lie?
…
That was
nothing or maybe everything I am still trying to bury
A
lifelong ache hidden underneath the ruins of what once I called SELF.
I still write
countless poems, yet the scars are still hugging me,
I try to
compose a happy song, yet the melody is never to be heard,
Still rehearsing
those plays wearing a thousand faces, yet never recognizing which one is mine,
I direct
so many movies of a life I never lived, always cutting the crucial scenes –
still hiding.
Am I the
monster or the character of story I cannot finish?
Still as
hard as stone, too emotionless to feel, still afraid of that reflection
And regardless
of whether it is a poem, a song, a play or a short movie I create
I am hopelessly lost in the ruins of what I once called SELF!
