Open your eyes

I cannot call myself unfortunate. I cannot start to confess to crimes or deceits I have made my own. I cannot part with evil, I cannot bow in destitution. Not entirely. I cannot burden you with my plights; I cannot trespass on your hospitality. I will not share the source of my unending agony, but in all honesty, I might. I will speak of my misfortunes to you, only you. I will whisper to keep the sorrow abound at bay, I will go mute when I see you can bare no more. I will be ashamed at how petty my troubles are compared to yours. I will make out my sad circumstance to be nothing more than a phase, a mere moment of bad if not worse luck. You will be kind. Kind enough to not judge, kind enough to seek my merits and dismiss my fears as hapless children of my imagination. You will try to understand and hold my truthful tears when I can continue no more. You will wait with me, slowly as the day ends, slowly to usher in a new beginning. I will be glad but burdensome all the same. Much obliged but muddled in untangled affairs. Certain of my imminent and inevitable demise.

In my world there are aches, there is sorrow. In me there is sadness and yearning. Longing for a way and desperately hoping to find the path. Knowing fully the extent of my capabilities but stretching and bending to see them grow. Being content with the confines of a habitual practise but aching most every day with the want for more. The physical pain blinding, the yearning unleashing tears. In the darkness and solitude the empty roars to shake the rhyme. Useless. The duelling dwarfed talents keep stirring the otherwise calm waters. I listen and wait. When the moment seems appropriate I reach for a tool to capture the shouts and movements of their courteous dance. Rarely is it a success, rarely can I do justice to the warring inside. The talents bestowed are wasted and fallen before they could arise. For that I am to blame. Why try. It seems unjust to force the talents to pour out through this talentless vessel. It seems unjust, it seems selfish in its worth. That it may very well be, I cannot be relied upon to decide, for that I need you. Sway with me until you feel these words gain worth. Sway to feel their rhythm and plight. Sway to see the truth with open eyes.

I shan’t take much more of your time, I apologise. These phrases have not helped my case. I am to never confess these fears again, but surely I know I will break a promise of this kind. My part could well be left undone, the world would not see great loss. You would save time and I tears. The words and ideas would surface from another pen, another’s efforts. All would not be lost, better still, all would be moulded to a different phrase, beat, to a different mind’s interpretations. I should let go. I should make haste and let go. I am a thief, a dishonest robber of ideas and words for my own benefit. I snatch them away from better talents, make them worthless in the end, release them into the world unready, ill formed, unprepared. Shapeless and haphazard they do damage but only to themselves. I hurry them to arrive unready and then bask in their untimely appearance as if they were gold. As if the light reflected was more than beams dancing on the surface of worthless glass.

Here is my plight: forgive me. Please forgive me for writing and forgive me for making you read. Forgive me for enslaving these words and forgive me for stealing their frail, sparrow-like bodies from others who could be better owners. Forgive me for my inability to cease. Forgive me for my future endeavours. Forgive me for taking much too much of your time. Forgive me for these open eyes. They are a testament to the words being alive. Forgive me kindly, forgive in time.