by Unwirklich VinZant

Created on: May 17, 2009   Last Updated: May 31, 2010

They say "Don't be sad when things go away because things die everyday."

I don't write.

I don't know how.

What I do is something else from some time else that belongs in the mouth of a gypsy by a fire rambling emotion into words.

It was never meant for paper.

Paper holds.

Paper has rules.

Writing is for crossing T's, dotting I's and
spelling the sound out of words.

People like me die in grammar books.
We don't exist anymore.

My words are worth no more than the silver stands that fall from my head, too fine to be found so they can be seen to shine.

I found my hugs in every line, my kisses in every space, my I love you in every picked up pen.

I didn't give humanity the chance to listen aloud.

I let their hurt..

I let their hate...

I let their friendship..

I let theirs lies..

I let their truths..

pour past me into pages.

I let ink take my emotion away.

I shared it with the fires.. and the fires never talked back.

So I shared it with the people.. and the people praised it... because people love misery made into pretty words.

It doesn't mean they understand anything but that it sounded pretty.

It doesn't mean that all they saw wasn't errors,

All they saw wasn't a lack of conformity.

Like staring at a circus freak because he's not like me,

They stare at my words,

Because their not like anything.

It doesn't mean they took what was in the ink and drank it in the way it was meant to be.

The fire always took everything.

How lonely letters must be drowning in human sympathy.

How wrong of me to give it to them.

So I close the pages and lock the keys..

drop the pens..

and say good bye to my lifelong friend.

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