im tired of trying to write what i feel

living inside the rectangular notebook, serenaded by the familiar and comfortable twist and turns of words, make one oblivious of the screaming outside the title. when one learns to sleep beside metaphors and eat together with the petal and thorns of a flower, the world that is always bleeding is only seen with synonyms floating around the liquid. the hurt is nothing but an inspiration for the starving poet and tragedy is everything but devastation. one forgets the real feeling of wounds, using colossal phrases to trick one's body of its effect. scars are narrated to form constellations when they are the aftermath of the real pain not needing any adjectives to describe its form. one does not hear any sound when a heart breaks into million parts, heck, it does not even crack. personification is only an escape from the whimpers and the endless silence that makes the organ seemingly burst. the moon is not a friend, nor does it care about the tears that are in no way diamonds from the eyes. books are not companions to relay one's cries, they are not reflections but fiction that is not lived by anyone. poems do not make consolations to summarize a real feeling into a 4 paragraph structure. pain cannot be trapped in a page and remedies cannot be found on empty sheets. perhaps its time to rest the hand, and remember to let the ink dry once in a while because living with only an eye open, and a half body buried deep between lines numbs a person. perhaps it's time to refrain from romanticizing every inch of a feeling and really feel all of them without the superfluous stories attached. perhaps it's time to live under a ceiling, and hear the rain as rain and not some knocking or crying of the heaven in despair. It's time to unsee sunrise as hope and sunset as endings. In the same way, leave behind the message of various smiles that you have written on your mind. unhear the made-up sound of walking away footsteps and the whispers in the quietness. unsmell the lingering perfume of the past because it had been blown by the wind from the start. unlove the ocean and its poetic waves, the surreal hues of the sky, the eternal tunnels, the alleys, and the train rides full of people with thought bubbles on their sullen faces. stop blaming the dark for being dark and mistaking the light brighter than it has always been.