To
hell with declarations! Why waste your breath on
claims
that strangle you with responsibilities you can’t bear,
forcing
you to start muttering incantations, surrendering
to
the same superstitions you spat on? Your self-proclaimed
independence
is now worthless, abandoned without a second
thought
as you try to reach for the sky. This is not an act of magic,
no
amount of faith will restore the lines you’ve lost to careless
emotional
indulgence and unrealistic imagination. To hell
with
aspirations—fluctuations of confidence that graze the tips and
trenches
of hesitation as it goes up and down, up and down with the
intonation
of the words you’ve wasted and the words you saved but
should
have spent. There is no room for trepidation and speculation.
You
either do it or you don’t. This is not an act of magic. Poetry
does
not appear out of thin air. If I wanted to mumble my deepest
worries
and desires, I’d rather close my eyes and sleep, and dream
my
life away. To hell with all these confessions coated with
so
much sugar they hurt my teeth. Don’t talk to me about being friends
with
the dark if you insist on bringing a flashlight. To hell with futile
contradictions!
You either put your pen where your mouth is or
you let your mouth talk your way to death.