cracks in the stone that binds me

from cracks in the stone that binds me

from cracks in the stone that binds me,

these words spill out.

I do not know what will come first,

or what will follow—

but I know they are from deep in my heart,

and I cannot stop them from spilling through.

there is only a shell of me,

and only a blurry silhouette of you.

from cracks in the stone that binds me,

these words spill out.

and within them, worlds of pain

that beg more to follow.

I don't know what comes first,

or how I'm expected to follow.

I am trapped inside a statue of myself

that does not look like me

but I know

that these words are from a well

deep in my heart

and I cannot stop you from reading them.

I cannot bare to move.

I feel foolish.

there are paragraphs upon paragraphs from me,

and not a single sentence from you.

there are pages and pages from me,

and not a single word from you.

there are songs, and poems, melodies sung from my bones,

and not a single sound from you.

what will you say,

if you see me now?

shivering in yet another defeat,

but not backing down.

I stand not unafraid,

I stand not undefeated,

but I continue on for myself

and only myself

and I hope you'll grow to understand that
with time.

or will you say anything at all?

there is no way for me to know.

you don't stand in shadow waiting for my call like I do you.

being realistic

is the only way I can keep myself sane—

keep myself from drifting further away

from the ground beneath my feet—

from the couch beneath my legs.

and so I must be overly realistic,

and maybe..

maybe even a little pessimistic.

from cracks in the stone that binds me,

my words spill out, a direct betrayal of my privacy.

and within them, worlds of secret suffering

that invite more to follow.

I am comfortable in all the bad things,

as to one of the scars on my heart can attest,

but oh, I would drop it all for you in a second—

and yet, I perceive I jest.

I am writing letters to No One—

she is here for me in your stead.

I refuse to let myself go sleepless,

but I must free these thoughts from my head.

the gallery of my mind stretches wide with paintings

of things that I fear will never be.

as these words spill off the page, it's a direct violation of my privacy—

but I. . . don't mind if it's you who's pressing me.

from cracks in the stone that binds me,

these words spill out of their place.

tucked far behind my cold mask and everything else,

so that I alone may live with this disgrace.

I know not if you find them

unless you have the courage to tell me

but nobody ever wants to talk to me

and so, it is these fears I shall never face.