16/06/2024
....
i hold my pen, with a thought weighing heavy:
how do i write the depths within
when my soul does not hold the pen?
my body becomes but a vessel
confined by its physical, earthly limits.
if my heart replaced my brain,
eloquence will flow from my lips
and my hands will craft the language of love.
yet no lexicon, however vast and wide,
can capture the fullness of this world's essense,
the entirety of the universe's depths.
as my pen lingered upon the page, a moment too long,
the ink bled deep, staining the pages beneath, like a tattoo.
for i believed the words written on the surface
needed to seep deeper into my being,
needed to bleed deeper and deeper into the paper
to unveil the profound, the agonizing, the potent truth of humanity and its depths.
though, no word is too shallow not to pierce deeply
nor too fleeting not to carve wounds on one's heart,
like ink tattooed on the skin — the stings persist, their permanence indisputable.
yet, in my misjudgement, i've written nothing but an acceptance letter to myself:
i fail to compose anything, for the expanse of this very existence is too vast
and too precious for simple phrases to represent.
i put my pen down.
—irewrites | my pen.