Beginnings of a line
On a night so dark and dreary,
But my heart is so heavy and my patience so thin.
I can barely stand the agony.
Surrounded by the company of my own voice.

On these nights,
I feel like a transient in my own body.
Being a torture to myself,
Because I had no place to go.
And nothing else better to do.
Than wish away these words filling my paper.

I’ve seem to have lost my touch...

So here I remain.
Contemplating the general knowledge of my life.
With no matter of how much it may be lacking,
And no visible line to cross.
Sadly, a sparse existence.
And no shame to stop me from admitting it.

I’m a fakir of many things...
Except for this.

Had it not been for the accidental tearing of my heart,
Could I have understood the damage in forgiving too soon?
If I had never felt a loss so deep,
That I thought I would never speak again;
I would not know how to put silence into words.

I am not a poet for stringing a pair of subconscious thoughts in place.
I am not a poet because my heart can depict a single look in infinite ways.
I am a poet because I know that simply...

One cannot exist without the other.

And tonight, if I sit here long enough,
It will soon become clear to me that maybe I’m just a liar after all.
But then again,
It has never been up to me to decide...