Ink Heart When sound sleeps and thoughts breathe, I live. I awake from the slumber of survival and remove my suit of mundane, baring the most vulnerable essence of my truest self, Convoluted and ocean floor thinking that breaks my shell for society, and rips asunder the defenses developed from lack of intimacy with people. Underneath the armor of adamantium forged from fears and foul experiences, lives a heart that does what hearts do. It loves. With rhythm, it beats strongly with affection. Pumping the only substance I equate with life. No red blood but black floods of ardor. It is there, deep in my chest beneath the fight for financial security, bad of before, and delirium tremens toughly tamed. Forced to reassure itself that expression and confession bare the same beauty, the same purpose, the same importance. The words crashing into sealed lips find light. Despite the recurring reminders of my verbal vice from reaching hearts forgetting that I speak no emotion. I feel and free each tender thought through ink, my sole mean of expressing the warmth that remains unspoken. For delivery is my distant more than the cold indifference often perceived. My words unsaid are words unread but are written more than moments earning them. I speak tenderly when compelled, but not all heartbeats can be easily heard. Some have to be seen to find sound.
Posted on: Sat, 17 Aug 2013 09:07:38 +0000
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