it is nothing
but a burgeoning doubting
in my mind
but a question asked
in secret into
familiar valleys of a
drowned and comfortless pillow
but a tirade of rage
and bitter finger-pointing
to myself and no one,
almost no one, else
but an itch
i have scratched
too many times over
until a wound has formed
until an infection has spread across
the sinews and threads
of the suffocating why
that is my
silence.
only the silence
of feigned ignorance
and duty-bound forgiveness
can make it right.
only my silence.
it is nothing.
4 comments:
but you ARE something and so is this, very introspective, poem.
wallowing in your sorrow will get you nowhere. whatever it is, move on! you can do it.
I came by after seeing your comment on Blue Rogue's blog hoping you are still writing.
From reading this instant powerful insightful images loomed. I read your words in a rush, identifying with that "finger-pointing" "comfortless pillow", "an itch scratched too many times until a wound"...and oh that deafening "silence."
This struck home.Oh, how I know when one doesn't feel worthy.
Hugs to you across the internet.
cj,
i'm touched. you're sweet for saying that. thank you.
anonymous,
thank you for your comment. don't worry. i'm not wallowing. as a writer, i just feel a need to write things down like this. sometimes, my feelings are magnified when put down into words because the art takes over. it's my complete surrender to an emotion that would have otherwise faded out. :) thanks for the vote of confidence!
silvermoon
you're such a dear. thank you for telling me how you identified with the poem. it comforts me knowing that someone else understands. do visit again! *hugs right back* ^__^
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