Words

Words chase me with wicked wills. They call out from empty space. They beg me to write them. They long to be heard. But these words are wicked. I will them away.

So long as there is paper, their names shall be called. They tell me what to write. I don't want to listen. I have a will, and I will that I write. But when I read what I have written, it is the work of other words.

Double meaning deep within. Lines between the words. What I write will matter not. They fill the empty space. They seep into the cracks. They poison my work. They promise false perfection. They seep into my mind.

In spoken word, they make them known. All the words I never said. In written word they rest. Awaiting minds to seep within. They await their understanding. That one day they might awake.

A face in a mirror is a stranger to me. Who looks behind my shoulder, eyes filled with glee. Suns set on tomorrows. Yet never set on sorrows. Chains bind my mind. But only air do my hands find. Siren songs call me below. If there is no water, where do I go? I see gemstones in the ground. That others lost but never found. Stars curse me with my own wishes. They turn my dreams to become vicious. Windows separate me from the world. In their reflections is my story told. Wind blows softly on my skin. It whispers all I keep within. Raging fires grow with passion. Of guilt and remorse for what did not happen. Shadows grow so ever clear. They dance to say what ears can't hear. I stand on stones too weak to bear. Who stand for one so never fair. Desert heat steals my strength. Telling tales of desperation's length. Dull eyes shine with endless beauty. Whose value to find is my soul's duty. Faces haunt me from my past. They scream in silence how consequences last. Smiles tell of people's truths. How happy faces waste their youths. I sail alone to distant seas. To find a heart that doesn't freeze. Echoes ring from distant lands. They warn how failure ends all plans. Trees grow tall in fertile earth. Their lack of will is the universe's mirth. I once found joy in open fields. Now to them is what hope yields.

Blood is not the color red. It's black like ink of words unsaid.