May 28, 2016

To hell


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. 

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