A Search For Answers

I write not because 

it makes me a better person,

but because only words 

can trap what my eyes saw in a look.

I paint with my words,

what my eyes narrate.

I let my memory lead me 

to the deepest shallows

and inhale in trenches 

I haven’t been in.

With my words i travel 

across horizons 

I cut through time and space 

I rearrange my past 

and order it in a beautiful mess

for your mind to think of my horror 

as tranquility. 

with my words i touch your skin,

I disguise my trembling 

as art 

only my insides knowing the 

mirror my words are built out of.

I write to see if you see you 

in my miseries,

to see if you share that 

part of the abandon 

which isn’t art.

i write to question my dark,

to search for answers 

within a blue so bright 

that irony is redefined.

I write to scream quietly 

that my words can rip you 

to your bare existence

if you threaten 

the power they behold.

I write to dress you up,

so perfectly

with metaphors that 

recreate a fairy tale 

to fit every inch of your skin.

I write to bring to your notice,

that you’re a fairy 

in an unwritten 

magnificent tale.

I write to tell you that,

you could be the calm 

felt by hearts 

looking at the low tides 

yet be the rage they hold 

making their hearts race 

looking at your wrath 

during a storm.

I write to tell you 

that I don’t write your stories,

I write stories 

that make you feel 

they’re yours.

I don’t write for metaphors,

metaphors write for me.