This is only
A teardrop,
A thought

Such a small part of me
Yet such a large part of who I am

Reverberations
Pulsing echoes
The sound of hearts crying out
Melodious, harsh, clean, distorted
Just like the lives being mirrored

Music the shell of a feeling
Resonating against our souls
Or falling flat

Words as much as melodies
Echo
Pulse
Cry out

So I shall let my heart bleed into an inkwell
And using my self as the pen
I shall write out the pain and sorrow
The trials of my heart shall be duly noted
And records kept of my feelings and trials

But no, this is not who I am

I am blood spattered upon pages
In fits of passion and sorrow
Smears of emotion upon walls
And bloodied handprints upon hearts
I am choking despair cradling innocence's tiny body
A lone voice screaming hoarsely into the night "Why?!"

I am no recluse sequestered away crafting with precise genius

I am deep in the trenches, shrapnel in my side, in agony
Fighting losing battles with numbed hope and shaking hands
Waiting for relief, for reinforcements, for death, for anything

I am visceral and alive and hurting and real
Because it means something to feel
And it means something to be alive
For only in living can my spirit thrive

Yes I wish sometimes
For the lives of others
To be graced with riches
Or genius beyond compare
Ultimately, though
Deep down I know
That fame and fortune hold an allure
That only time and true wisdom can cure

This is only
A teardrop,
A thought

Such a small part of me
Yet such a large part of who I am

When my ink flows
I must write
So that no teardrop
Is wasted.

3:16 pm
03/24/2006