Days spent in an environment fast-paced,
Nights drowned
in a daze – slow motion.
Lives lived
in parallel realities, in complete collusion
Of who I
am and who I pretend to be.
A rack of
masks, a collection of emotions
None of
them is meant to last.
…
Constant
conflicts, constant fights,
A race for
dominance over no one’s life.
Years of
living under the familiar pretenses,
Stage of
elaborate acts, theater of pain.
…
My life
lacks the verbs, I use only nouns,
An occasional
adjective, thrown in the mix,
Adverbs
replace the full sentences,
I avoid
the clearness of my thoughts.
One-word
answers, this is what I use
Too tired
to explain what I really mean.
This world
feels like one-pager;
A document
for fast consumption.
The poetry
is too emotionally charged,
Too sensitive,
some days even complex for the exhausted brain.
The novel
is too long, too many connections, several plots –
A composition
that requires effort in the era of the quick story, three minutes long.
…
I hold
my breath between the endless tries and failures,
Every exhale
attempts apologies I never wanted to convey.
Every tomorrow
feels like debt I refuse to pay,
My hopes
are stacked, hidden where my drafts are laid to rest.
Every minute
I unwind feels like another task on the to-do list I fill out each morning;
Another thing
I am too tired to do right.
More and
more often these days I am the scent I leave behind,
A faint fragrance
on the note that no one reads.
