trying to find truth in words, in rhymes, in notes, in all the things I wish I’d wrote

Step XXXIX
Literacy

I had an assignment for my writing class that I found rather inspiring. We needed to think of 10 metaphors for our writing.

I started out very basic.

My writing is a canvas.

I then got a little more introspective.

My writing is...
a bridge.
a wounded messenger pigeon.
like a song with no beat.
a piano that is out of tune.
a hermit crab desperately trying to escape its shell.
a little ray of sunshine.
the last light on in the attic.
a Temple.
a workhorse.
a bubble in my veins.
an hourglass riddled with cracks.
a finely woven tapestry fraying at the edges.
a miniature replica of a colossus.
a scale where I weigh all of my thoughts.

a quality that arouses emotions (especially pity or sorrow)

Step XXXVIII Poignancy


I still can only think about
all the ways I've been wronged.
Your tiny little mouth and sick little heart can't hope to ease my doubts.
So I'm left wondering how to start, to speak, to even breathe.
There is an hourglass in my heart
but the sand never looks quite right
because the creases and cracks in the glass aren't sealed that tight
and when the fractures explode
I'll be choking where I'm standing
my veins turned to stone
my chest turned to pieces
inside out, exposing all my secret places.
Now, resting where my lungs once called home,
a few stray thoughts that escaped my head,
reveling in their new found freedom,
lapsing in idyllic peace
until that grave wight of reality
discovers their displacement
and responds with a resounding decision.
It condemns and consigns them to nothingness.