Do you want the truth? I don't have it.
I know what I used to believe in. I know the truth of before.
I know that I used to think that force was the key.
No attatchment and no self-confidence.
Everything was possible if you won battle after battle against yorself.
I knew that well enough. Everything was half by force.
It didn't matter if something important was destroyed.
I refused to let myself care. But my heart drew small things to myself.
When those connections broke, that was when I cried. On the inside.
Nobody else was allowed to know. I hurt when I broke the rules.
I never broke my own. I tried to live within the lines.
All that time, surviving but almost drowning in my own tears,
Inside the box, waging war against myself,
I wrote not a single line of poetry. In the end, writing was what saved me.
Now in my head I count out the syllables of my sentences.
I put beats to every phrase. Lines of thought are broken into stanzas.
I freely rationalize the irrational. I break the rules, but only my own.
I wander their philosophies. I contradict and I allow looking back.
My questions and statements double back and try to rhyme with themselves.
My eyes flash contradictions and I rewrite my history without hesitation.
I am an alliteration and smiles quickly become similes.
I live and breathe words and wishes, musts and misunderstandings.
My theories rush from nowhere and I bounce ideas off brick walls
And my sense is nonsensical. I trail puns and plays on words.
My footprints give away the secrets of paradox and eternity.
I am here to write. Let me write. Even if I tend to misinterpret fiction and phrases
Even if I lose my head in the paragraphs that mean everything at all
Even if I underestimate the truth, I can write. I only need to learn.
Why shouldn't I be made of metaphors?