words are clumsy and imprecise,
narrowing complex emotions into simple groupings of letters
that do not adequately express anything, open as they are to
misinterpretation and minimalization.
even when i’m not falling into a pit
from which even the thought of escape
diminishes like the ever-decreasing fragment of light shining faintly from the top,
i’m aware of their futility and i slowly cease to make the effort.
sharing the anguish that crawls around under my skin,
leaving me empty of everything but rage
and an unidentifiable pain that makes breathing an effort,
is too hard.
describing the voices that are not voices that run through my brain,
and whisper horrible things,
and reaffirm in me the belief that i’m wasted work,
is too difficult.
the explanations i give, that i feel like a walking, talking lie,
that inside i’m screaming for help
in an effort to survive the dark and ugly twisted me,
my soul is complicated and i lack the language
to describe the me i take such pains to conceal,
but that requires so much assistance.
perhaps there’s enough meaning here,
in these tiny and insignificant words,
to help you see and have you hold out a hand.
(july 23, 2018)