#artofwords

But love cannot hold when the wheel turns, and the cart must leave the lane. The stone walls, lichen-kissed and crooked, know this well—they whisper so to the restless wind.

Still, my heart stumbles. Will the oaks bend lower, seeking my absent touch?

The fields stretch out as though in prayer, their golden stubble catching the last light.

I leave behind my silence, my shape in the long grass, my ache in the air.

the white pages and blue lines were the only things that ever heard me.

they held my shaking hands,

cradled every broken thought without flinching.

but now even you feel distant—

a ghost of the comfort you used to be.

i reach for you and my voice slips through the cracks,

thin, fading,

like i’m whispering through water.

i speak and they don’t understand.

i write and they twist the meaning.

different mouths, same laughter—

the cruel kind,

the kind that tastes like rust and old wounds.

so i become the jester again,

tripping over my own tongue,

smiling so they don’t have to look at themselves.

pain makes people ugly;

reflection makes them terrified.

so let them laugh.

let them point.

let them call me the fool.

maybe the world needs its jester—

someone to bleed quietly

My mind is not my own.

No, it belongs to six million other voices—

voices that aren't mine.

A never ending tug-of-war

Was I right? Was I wrong?

No... yes... maybe... think again.

I overanalyze every thought,

Until there are no more fingernails left to bite.

A courtroom rises before me,

Their eyes burn into my skin,

Their whispers echo in my skull.

A million silent judges stare,

Weighing my actions, my thoughts—

No, their thoughts, my actions.

Think. Re-think. Overthink.

No rest, just noise, just endless will.

For my mind is not my own,