by ERIC
Violence in words, sentence is death.
If caught at the wrong side, attacked by verbal grenades of the judgmental wishing for a repaired heart, blowing out candles but still embarking towards the light, my heaven reprimands you. My darkened thoughts wish for a spark of thoughts to ignite this eclipse. Wishing for the lacerations to vanish from my wrists, splattered letters written in crimson. Wishing for the three words with eight letters to stop being shoved down my throat as a reminder to remember my stomach snapping my independence. Wishing to remain mute, to stop the farewells from emotionally interrupting myself indirectly, deaf, unheard adolescence and will to learn. It is easier than being a cold blooded in hibernation, to regain consciousness of this endless trance, a wish for a letter to be sent to this person, dear dearly departed. To run then dive, to jump, to fly, to move, is to grow. I wish for the end to subside, to warm up a dish best served cold, a miracle, and for the deprived to uncover the truth in the lie and I wish, to stand up.
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