MOPLT

I write to myself in slate grey pencil
Upon this white piece of paper.
The lines are straight, perpendicular, organized.
Human.
I think of what to write.
My thoughts, deepest desires, they spill through my hand
In my sloppy slate grey.
They read, they don't know.
It is just another piece of paper
With words written on it,
Not even my own.
I can't own my own words anymore,
They are real,
You can feel them.
But they are fake.
Nobody takes the time
To know the writer behind
Those venetian blinds
Who just sits there, daydreaming,
Her thoughts sometimes sad,
Yet often correct.
I speak of myself, don't you know
The real me,
The me that is hidden in your web of what you want to believe.
That everything is perfect.
Human.
With answers that are always there,
Always definate.
So you tell of me to your friends.
Maybe in front of me, behind me, side to side
Out of my earshot,
And you laugh at the false me
Portrayed to your friends
For a simple nothing.
I just sit there not knowing,
Writing myself into this paper,
I can't hear.
But that is the poison,
The thing that keeps me awake at night.
I wonder
How many humans there are out there
Like those others,
They aren't people.
So few are actually people
Who can realize that they are looking at this false reality,
This small picture
I dwell in.
They feed,
They smile,
They think they know.
But they don't.

So I sit here writing on my paper
In slate grey
And I think to myself,
Will anybody read this,
Will they know,
Can they understand,
Must I scream at the top of my lungs
Without a voice,
Without a human soul
To hold me up, beliefs aren't my false support.
I have none.
No people are there,
Only bodies.
Many-celled, all functioning.
Just alive.
But not really.

Can I cry,
Can I please cry
And leave this world,
So full of lies poured into us by our own perceived world.
Human.
We can't break free with the help of others,
We can't take just one thing and run,
So why do we always try,
Why do I always try
To get you to listen,
Spilling everything out on this piece of paper,
Square, lined, human,
These symbols that mean so much to you.
We are human, different than animals.
We were created
To be intelligent,
To worship Him.
And yet, is it
An answer
That can be proved,
Or is it just an answer,
A theorum in this world
Without numbers, no calculations,
That all dead things know
But we cannot perceive.
And even if we return to life,
It is gone.

This life,
Is it over yet,
Am I free,
Will I ever be free.
I sigh, knowing
Nobody will understand.
It is just another poem,
Just another person pretending to know,
But how could I pretend,
How could I be your fake truth
When I question those who make them,
So inquisitively.
Just another philosopher,
Another girl,
Just a child.
I'll grow up.
And I'll be another one of them.
But how can I
When they have dropped me so many times.
Maybe I am broken.
Maybe I am the weak link
In this chain of humanity.
And so
I accept
Your generous offer
Of broken.

I might as well give up
Writing this pointless poem
To another human
Who won't see any farther beyond where they see now.
They will see,
But only in those few things.
Politics, religion, school, economy, environment,
Even the people who realize what we are doing to the world
Are blind
To what I say.
To what I see.
Do they care,
Why should they,
I'm just breaking their perfect world,
Their human masterpiece,
Where the big picture is in view,
But the focus is out
And we need glasses.

I write.
I sit here.
I try and make them understand.
But they'll just send me to a counselor,
I'm insane.
But at least I am sane in the most refined definition,
My own.

Senseless, gutless,
There is no part of me in this.
I am not this paper.
But these symbols represent what I have thought,
What the world has to think
But can't.
I'm the world's trash bin,
And they throw all of these ideas,
All of this knowledge
Into me
And expect me to let it go,
Let it fade away,
Be human.

I accept what the world lets me have,
And I accept what the world wants of me.
But acceptance is a lie,
Just a word,
I will be who I am.
Your small and sweet human remedy,
This treatment you give to everyone
To blind them from it all,
I take it.
I'm immune.

So I'll write down my poison,
The trash they threw into me.
I can hope.
No matter how pointless hope is,
Even if everyone tells me I'm useless,
I'm just asking what they've all questioned before.

You are reading this,
But are you reading this.
My thoughts.
Our thoughts.
The thoughts we all have
But have hidden away from the light
Because of this morphine called the human picture.
Our tiny tapestry,
Woven from false thoughts.
We are so delicate,
Yet so stubborn.
Human things can burn us,
But the water I pour on them of truth
Just drips off.

Is that it.
Am I meant to.
To drip away.
My thoughts,
Are they only mine,
Can somebody else out there hear.
I'm tired of it.
I want to be heard,
I know I am in you.
I am the voice you've locked up behind these human walls
But you will never let speak.
The meaning of this to me isn't just for writing,
It isn't depression,
But it is.
It is everything.
Do you get it.
Does anybody get it.

What is it.
I don't know why I keep trying to make you understand.
That fake criticism,
Those false smiles,
You say I'm a good writer.
I'm smart,
But how do you know.
There is so much more here than I know.
But we all know,
We all do,
That this is without an end,
A circle I keep running you around,
But you will never find the point that I am leading you to.
It isn't visible to the eyes of most.
Only those who look
Will find it.

I'm full of it,
Aren't I.
I'm loaded with things that mean nothing.
Even if I tell you,
Even if I scream to the world that they can't see,
They will continue
And say that my views are not important.
And they aren't.
But knowing,
Knowing is.
Being able to understand this,
That there is more to life than what you see,
What you accept.

But why should I.
I waste your time.
I am the waste,
A waste to this world for crying out.

People like me.
I know why they aren't here.
They are dying out,
Being picked out of this perfect human world.
There is no use for imperfections here.
So those who realize the faults,
That the world isn't just human,
And that there is never an answer,
They just go.
Alone.
Unheard.
Pretending to be them.
But they aren't.
I know they aren't.
So stop fooling the world,
This isn't a joke.

Just try.
Try,
Look,
Think,
How do you perceive
And why.
How do you know something created this,
That everything does have a beginning
And ending,
So perfect.
But those little things,
The things that make you cry,
They are human things.

Have you ever thought,
Ever wondered,
If this is final.
There is no more.
Nobody else like you,
Only these chosen things.
Popularity, individuality, being someone.
But are you.
Is that all there is.
How about thinking to yourself,
Why is it important.
What is important
And does it matter.

Does it matter
That I just write.
I just keep on writing my thoughts.
My own
Petty
Little
Thoughts.
I wonder if anybody is
Not reading,
Not thinking,
But feeling how I feel.
If maybe I can get through.
But I won't.
It is just a struggle.
I can't.
I can't,
Why.
Why do I try.
Must I try right now to get you to listen,
To see,
To get it,
To see that you are just hiding the reality behind the picture,
That crack in your wall.
It is still your wall.
But it's not perfect.
Hide it, fix it.
So pointless, represents nothing,
The thing is only left if it represents something.
Why not just leave it there anyways.
It does represent something.

I am the cracked wall
Writing to you
With this slate grey pencil
On paper.
So perpendicular.
Correct.
Lined.
Perfect.

...

And I don't know why.