My sadness is
like when you sleep on your arm
for too long.
Waking up to realize it won’t move
Picking it up and watching it lifelessly
bounce
back on your pillow.
Knowing you have to wait.
My sadness isn’t sharp.
It’s numb.
Incoherent.
It lulls back and forth
wandering around the empty space
I’ve carved out for it.
Looking for escapes I never built.
I don’t experience it like I’ve seen.
It’s not fierce.
In fact, it doesn’t even know what it is.
It’s like a child running in circles
playing alone and not knowing
any of the rules.
I never gave it time.
Time to process
to grieve.
to imagine
to develop.
It was for the best,
I thought.
If I gave it my time,
I would be stuck in a vast
hole of my own digging.
With dirt walls
crumbling in as I tried to
crawl away from the things
which make my head hurt
and my stomach gnarl.
But now I’m here.
With my sadness buried
starting when it was only a
child.
I hear it mumble songs.
Songs that if I heard the lyrics
would send me down to find it.
But I refuse to hear it.
I refuse to take up the life that it was
All the pent-up sorrow
will crush me in
like a hollow ornament.
With it stowed away,
though,
I’ve lost other things it used to make.
Like loving until my lips bled
And letting all of my being
bask in the pounding light
of the summer sun.
Intensifying every moment of my glory.
It was such a complex
and colorful feeling.
It had it’s blackness,
but it mixed with the
burned oranges and royal purples
that lay scattered inside it.
It sent me into a
cathartic war.
Forcing me to fight out
whatever heart-clutching thing
was holding on to me too tight.
It’s been too long
too many days have passed
to come out just once.
To carol one verse
and it’s gotten lonely.
Like sitting in a quiet winter
with no warmth or sound.
I feel angry towards my sadness
for guilting me
and making me feel like
my life could be lived
with much more
intensity,
and intent.
So angry that my fists go white
and my screaming roars into
the canyon of myself.
I get so infuriated
irrational.
Blurry.
Because I know it’s right.
If I had let it out
then I would be able to
feel the touch of skin like electricty.
I would be able to look into
others eyes and find links between us
never spoken.
I would be able to feel the raw,
personal truth of pain.
And recover from it.
I don’t want to.
I don’t want to.
I don’t want to. I don’t want to. I don’t want to. I don’t want to.
I want to put it off
until the end of time.
Never deal with it and just watch others
who let their sadness
take part in their life.
Of course, life with it will never be balanced
be organized
be simple.
But without it life is
without it.
simply put, it gives people
the struggle to survive from
and grow and learn
and love so intensely
like thick, rosy blood
dripping out of the heart.
Sadness is supposed to take its time
from what I’ve seen.
It takes its time and draws itself out
like string being pulled
from one spool to the next.
Sadness isn’t meant to be held prisoner.
It’s meant to dispell itself over the course
of your life.
Covering your entire body
from moments to years
and eventually absorbing back into you
letting you experience the other states of feeling
and appreciating them for what they’re worth.
What I have done
will result in
a restless
agonizing
split moment
of complete engulfment.
Where the sadness will not take to the pores in my skin,
but lay on top enjoying the fresh air.
It will never feel the need to
retreat back into the doorless
cavity
it grew up in.
And that is why I don’t talk about it.
because for me, it’s not there.
it’s not heard
it’s not coming out.
My sadness is without context of the world
and will explode in a fiery fit
to which I am not ready to endanger myself in.
Comments