What you know, yet never tell
Is that you want your lungs to swell

You want a metallic taste and rotten smell—
A symbol, a sign;
A picture, a slide;
A drink that is poison,
But still gets you high

You want to be as human as others,
Be they your enemies or your brothers,
Yet you'd also have the wind be
A solitary reminder of your singularity

You yearn for a heartache,
Bleeding as sap of poetry and prose,
And you wait for grief to fall into
The eager, lively hands of yours

And most of all, you want to sit
Desolate and passive, and,
When you get bored of it,
You want time to blow it all away

But they will never tell you about your pain:
It will always be you alone—
Unworthy of art, simple and plain—
It will seep, yet remain unshown

So unless you move,
So unless you flail,
Your struggles will never create,
And art they will not make

They will never leave
They will just ache


© shishmish