Made of Metaphors

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?



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