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Michem Marie-Laure

Inkbound Souls

As ink drips down on our paper while our fingers start to cramp from writing words.

About how things can be unfair and about how the world hurts.

Words become more than just words, as stories start to form.

Creating somewhat of a calmness in the endless mind storm.

 

Stories can be created from truths, but also from lies.

From fictional realities and many torn papers from failed tries.

Ink dripping on the floor, forgetting to put the cap back on.

As we fall asleep in an instant after we're done.

 

Still, when we have an idea, we can't just simply go to bed.

Because the ink in our pen is like the blood we've bled.

Our endless failures and sad situations, written down in a rose-colored frame.

As words can make a story more intense or tame.

 

We breathe our stories in and out, our blood is made of ink.

As we bleed out on paper, writing down everything we think.

Some may believe we are dreamers, but we're more realistic than some may believe.

Because we know how life can be unfair and how the mind can deceive.

 

An endless amount of love poems have shown this many times.

In haiku's, free verse, and a million more rhymes.

Yes, our poems can show a dreamy rose-colored state.

But you don't know how many use it as story bait.

As reality and mindsets warp and twist as the stories go on.

We portray a picture like it's slowly being painted until it's done.

Some may never believe our story, because they can't believe the things we write down.

Many people cry when grieving, but we write like we are wearing a crown.

 

We write our hearts out, on paper that will eventually fade.

Heartbreak, grief, and every other feeling or mindset.

As our hearts structure the story, while our blood acts like the ink.

We write down every bit of pain, everything we think.

 

Some may think it's oversharing, but many are cryptic with their words.

Using a place of sunshine and rainbows as a metaphor for a world that hurts.

We let our frustration out on paper, as we tear our work apart.

Quitting unfinished pieces, because everything just seems too hard.

 

Writing to our heart's content, letting it heal with every story we make.

Like a form of therapy, whether the story is real or fake.

We write whatever is on our mind, letting it free.

We're writers, we don't cry. We bleed out on paper.


 




Envoyé: 02:38 Sat, 16 March 2024 par: Michem Marie-Laure age: 19

Michem Marie-Laure

Uncharted Realms Within

I am not who you think I am.

 

I am not a block of clay for you to mold however you see fit. I am not something you can shape, pick apart, and smooth back together to straighten out the edges that seem too rough or too sharp to you. I am not soft and pliant, and I won't stick to your hands when you press into me, when you try to leave your imprints on my surface. I am not yours to change. I am not yours to create.

 

I will not be a product of your actions, submissive and obediently cowering underneath your heels as you walk your path. Your decisions won't be what breaks and mends my spine. They won't be what holds me back this time. And if you keep walking towards the cliff you've chosen, then that is between you and the drop, and not between me and you and the aftermath.

 

My life is not yours. I am not an extension of your existence, no vessel for the dreams you dreamt but never got to live. I am not bound to your vision of what I should and shouldn't be. My life is mine, and it will become what it was meant to be sooner or later. It will flower despite your hands closed around its stem, and it will spread despite you depriving the soil of water.

 

I am not who you think I am.

 

I am not docile, a compliant and simple-minded mouse in the corner of your attic, gazing from the shadows, running in circles, and finding contentment in the repeating floor patterns. I am coming apart at the seams, slowly but surely, and I will take all of these things I find inside of me and cherish them. Even if you've told me they were wrong and that no one would want to see them, least of all the world, I no longer care. I am not who you think of when you think of me. I am so much more, and it's refusing to be stifled any longer. It is no longer contained by the prison I've built for protection. It is coming, and you can't stop it.

 

And it will be loud and honest and angry, and I will no longer be the image of me you've created in your head. I am boiling over the edge of the pot. I am burning out of control. I am that one science experiment that will explode in your face and melt the skin off your bones if you shake me a little too hard, a little too long. And I am raw, and I am here, and I am alive.

 

And I am not who you thought I was.

 

I have always been more.


 




Envoyé: 03:04 Sat, 16 March 2024 par: Michem Marie-Laure age: 19