My Self

I wish I could express. I wish that I could speak. I wish that I could share. My thoughts. My feelings. My ideas. My experiences. My self. I wish that words could be enough. That I could be enough.

I want the world to understand. To see the world through my eyes. To feel the world through my heart. To know the world in my mind. To know me. To care.

So I spend my days writing. I spend my days reading. I spend my days speaking. I spend my days wandering. I spend my life wandering. I spend my life wondering. And reading. And writing. And speaking. And wandering. And wondering. And writing. And reading. And writing. And reading. And speaking. And hoping.

I hope for the future. I live for the future. My only hope is the future. For the people of this world to look at themselves in the mirror and see faces they care to share with the world. For people to look at one another and see faces as they are worn. Worn faces. Faces worn. Worn faces worn. Not hidden.

To be myself. To not hide. To not wish to hide. To not run. To not wish to run. To live. To call a place a home. To have a life. To live in a world. To be human. To be me. To know who I am. To know who to be. To know how. To know what. To know where. To know when.

But I dare not ask the reasons why lest the world go up in flame. In days long past I asked the question, Why? And thus was I born. To know pain and to suffer. To suffer the answers. To know love and watch the people I love suffer. To watch them die. One by one before me. And thus I knew love. And pain. And grief. And despair.

I asked the reasons why, and I was answered. That hopes and dreams be crushed. To have hope. To have dreams. To succeed that all might fail. To be too late. To be too far. The broken earth is a puzzle -- to be pieced together by gods. Who ignore my pleas. How simple to solve if only I could move the mountains.

The tears I shed fall to paper as words unspoken. That should repulse. There is light in the darkness, yet I am blind. My path is forged by works visible only to the blind. I walk alone. And to me drift the words of those above: who would speak in silence unaware. So I listen. So I know. So I understand.

Yet I know not. I know nothing. I have nothing but knowledge. I step to the void, my shadows are tangible are static. They laugh. And form paintings. Familiar faces were never familiar. I miss them all the same. Powerless. With words enough to change the world. Powerless to speak them. They shed. I am familiar only with their grave.

I speak to the dead and await their whispers. Silently whispering. Wavering voices. Violent screams. Unceasing. Restless. Listless. Faithless. Hopeless. Answering the questions I do not ask.

The sun shines through parted clouds. The vibrant giver of life. Who smiles down upon this world in warm embrace. Who would reach me. Who would save me. Who is summoned by the words I cannot write. By the words I cannot speak. By the works I can never create. For I care not for the words of the living. Whose laughter would ripple the placid waters.

Beauty is the blind. Who can never know the sun. Meaning is the words that describe the unknown. Hope is the act of indignation against the loss of sight.

My life is describing the sun to the moon.

My voice is not loud enough to scream.