Cowards

There are pages and pages within books and binds, as there is snow on every mountain and peak that holds itself above you. There are pens in the pen stand that stand their ground but the ink won't come through. There are petals and flowers and large cowards that sleep in the shade of the bloom. No strength or power to get up and shower, I wish all of this ends soon. 

There's a hum within the walls, there's a tint to the light that falls through the shade, there's a hope within the furniture, there's a hope within the wake. Who steals your body, who steals your mind, not one could steal and theft away that ache of time. No sound hurts, no pain stabs, not a single shard will hold itself back. Not a word spoken, not a breath held, you want to run but the waves swell. The sky changes, the answers vanish, the ocean stands still yet the water leaves you famished. The salt in your eyes burns, and the fear in your soul turns,turns away, runs away. 

Away, we want to be away, not far, certainly not close just in the distance of the slow death we propose. Detached from our rotting body and taken aback by the everlasting world. It's not a craze, it is certainly fanatic, not a boy's dream, but just a simple escape. 

Routine, order and chaos, controlled. Not one without the other or so we are told. Who holds each side, spilt down the middle? Who lets you decide what's right, to be meddled? No guide, no sight, no vision, no mind. Just words and thoughts strung like flowers of the lot. The needle swings through, breaking each petal, down into a form of each lover's keepsake. 

What good are we in the eyes of others? in the eyes of the shifting tides of politics and pride? Are we worth? Are we sold? Are we anything but another mold? Not a day will go by without your soul on trial, not a wink of sleep will engulf you, until you are worth. Worth. Worth. 

Show don't tell, show you are something, make it seen. Make a display. Hold your name like it deserves its own place. Be something, do something, you are something when they see something. No, I won't do anything. But nothing is something and never lies in peace. But it is something, so someone must see it, and be it and claim the prize. Are you satisfied to see your tag written, to see history consume your being and stand testament to your existence? Are you greedy? Do you want more? More prizes, more names, more words written down for your own gain? I see it, I see through it. No one wants you, no one needs this. But you see something, do something and be something, so the everlasting, all knowing, all withstanding beings hold you up and point you out. 

They know you. All you want is to be known. To be held, to be loved, to be seen, to be touched. A power you wield, only through others. You are selfish and mean, yet kind to these beings, no different from your mind's fictions to help you sleep at night. Are you anything? Anything at all? Are your steps counted as you walk an empty road to an empty house? Do you exist in your mind? Do you see? Do you see yourself? 

Do you exist inward? Do you direct inward? Do you prove your worth to your own eyes? Do you look in a pond and see the blue light change the hues on your face? Do you wish for more? Of more of you? not a spectacle, not a miracle, not something, just something. Do you pray for solitude? Do you crave leaving your own sight? Do you disgust yourself? Do you actually have pride? Is any of your disguise real? Are any of your parts real? Are you sure of yourself? Are you sure of something? Are you sure of anything? 

No, you are as blind as you are to the nose on your face. You seek the eyes of others, their piercing sight is your sustenance. Their eyeballs never see themselves, yours never see theirs. You look away, they look away and your feet converse as though only they are grounded enough to muster up some courage. You are scared, scared to see the spark in their eyes that burns for a starter, that burns for a flame. You are scared to mirror that fight, to seek the fodder, to stand on your own name. Not a foreign being, just a human, a human lives beside you, alongside you, within you. 

The petals and cowards shower the streets, flooding every inch, no room to breathe. So take it all in, hold each moment close, not a single breath is wasted on moments such as these. 

This is little bit of a handwritten existential crisis.

Enjoy.