When i told my friend,
i've never memorised anything i've ever written:
neither the beginning, nor the end,
he was curious, like most men are,
about pointless things, which is bizarre,
and asked me, "why?"
and i said, "scars."
what i didn't say was,
everything i've ever written,
has been written with sadness,
with pain, all stained,
an overexposed negative with too faint colours,
all in an attempt to make a picture.
their idea of brilliance isn't staying up nights,
because the mind refuses to stop thinking,
nor is it breaking down every fragment of life
until there's nothing good left,
nothing worth an ounce of happiness.
years of memories are lost in my head,
so i don't remember why i was scolded,
for being too talkative when i was 7.
when i don't remember ever having friends,
or things to talk about, lies to make up.
words in my head are always out of order,
like they were when i was 8,
and everyone told me i couldn't write,
because all i did was,
write down words
below the ones
above for symm-
and leave blanks
for words that i thought would fit,
but didn't know which one to choose,
and write always out of line,
as if my letters were refusing to be caged.
i reread words
again again again
to see how they sound ssounnd s-o-u-n-d
and how they feel in my head,
and why they were put there,
and i get stuck for hours on the same sentences,
knowing what they sound like,
but not knowing what they mean.
i have questioned my words
words words words
too often to even value them,
and i don't want to remember them,
not now, not ever,
because all they do is put my mind off things,
and all i've ever done is,
find tragedies in realities.