Nothing to read......
I am easy to read
My head too soft and easy to penetrate
My thoughts show no depths
Need to dig myself further into the ground for steadiness.
Attempts to read me have made scholars laugh.
Too easy, they say
There’s nothing to her, nothing to read.
It’s all there.
Not need to look any deeper.
She bares it all on the outside.
Like an item desperate to be bought
Desperate to be wanted
There is no space for mystery.
All is out on display.
Nothing to entice the knowledge thirsters.
But if only they knew,
If only they knew how preposterous these smiles are,
How empty my laughter is.
How vacant my interest is.
If only the noticed the frequent blank stares,
Or how my smiles never quite meet my eyes,
Or how I flinch when brushed by accident.
How can they miss how I savour the spot on my body where contact has been made.
Or how when I think no one is looking, I wipe the tear threatening to fall.
You call yourself scholars and yet you never notice how my arms are constantly wrapped around my torso,
Trying to keep myself from falling apart
Trying to do another persons job
How about my eyes?
You notice them?
You notice the lines that form around them like vines?
And you can’t miss the constant glaze in my eyes.
Or the tremor in my voice,
Or how my posture caves in the minute I’m separated from the crowd.
You don’t know the stories that form at night,
Or the maps that tears leave carved into my face,
Or the way the darkness welcomes me with wide arms despite my weak whimpers,
Or how loneliness strokes me to sleep at night.
And when that doesn’t put me to sleep, depression steps in.
Pounds me to sleep till numbness becomes a merciful gift
They don’t know how sorrow ruthlessly drags me out of bed every morning,
While failure sits and watches my humiliation with a smile.
Is that big enough a mystery for you?
A problem big enough to keep you up at night?
An understanding so unfamiliar that you lust for it day and night?
Consider yourselves enticed.
Consider yourselves baffled.
Consider yourselves dumbstruck.
I am the one specie that requires dissecting and close observations before theories and drawn.
An attempt to read my will be welcomed, but incorrectness is guaranteed.
2 comments:
*You don’t know the stories that form at night,
Or the maps that tears leave carved into my face,
Or the way the darkness welcomes me with wide arms despite my weak whimpers,
Or how loneliness strokes me to sleep at night.*
Do i av to beg Obama to talk to u! Girl pls keep 'em coming this is depth!!
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