Song Of My Soul

I'm trying to scream,
but the sound doesn't propagate.
It amuses me.

I'm trying to get up,
but the weights that break my shoulders
keep me lying down.

I'm running through all my veins.
The blood gets heavier than the steel,
the skin gets rougher than the ice,
and the head is like a shell
that explodes and implodes at once.

I'm trying to reach out, my soul!
A fist in the groin of untold pain,
I cry with unshed tears,
I scream with a mute voice,
I struggle on the spot.

Squeezed into my corner,
I beg with my eyes a breeze!
My flesh trembles, it frightens me,
but on the surface, I sketch
with the last traces of graphite a broken semicircle,
so that I can still beg only from my eyes,
so that I do not have to articulate the words
that cut the air and sing my demons
through all the corners.

I'm trying to break off, but my soul, again!
A punch in the groin.
I curl up, I scratch, I flit, I desert.

Nobody hears you!
Nobody listens to you!
Nobody wants to listen to you!
How can I speak when I get assaulted from all sides?
No, no, no, no!
Don't do, don't say, don't try, don't exist!

If now a gust of wind came up,
and swept me away,
disintegrated me into pieces,
would it reduce me to an idea, would it?

Someone, anything, in this vastness, is it?
Would they notice that I'm missing,
that I've been annihilated, erased from my existence?

The bells wouldn't cry,
Everything would be superfluous,
time wouldn't even remember a fraction
that I was here, that I had a name, that I had a face, that I had a voice.

Why is that?
Because my name is bland,
it doesn't resonate,
because the nothingness of being distorts my face,
because my voice has gone entirely silent,
it has nothing to say.
So it was all in vain as they never existed.

Their disappearance will pass unseen.
Comforting, or perhaps delusional, I can't say.
They both dance so close that I can't tell them apart.
Both are clasped together, coagulated,
as if they were left from the same origin.

I'm sitting in my corner, trying to make as little noise as possible.
To blend in with the rest of the landscape.
Don't make unusual gestures that can't be read,
then interpreted, and then stigmatized.

I don't want anyone to understand
the field of war within me, in which
every territory is seized, assaulted, oversaturated,
which I gradually feel more and more of land.

I can't control, I can't counter, I can't resist.
All I have left is to desert.
To get down on my knees before the assault,
to watch them approach, to feel
the heavy breath, the cold sweat, the paralysing fear,
and the smouldering howl that strangles me.

And then I wait.
He keeps coming; he's galloping,
and in the moment of grace,
all the fear, all the grief, all the pain, all the pain, all the time... disappear as if they never were.
Like it's never been me.

I'm moving slowly.
I'm looking for my place in the most unremarkable places.
I avoid giving voice to all horrors I approve, disapprove, smile forcibly,
and then, like a snail, crawl back into my cell.

It's just that it's not on the mountain,
and it's not modest; it's vast, impressive, infinite.
In it begins an entire universe of turmoil; passive, insignificant.

There you find all the worlds I've created,
all the narratives I've written,
all the ones I've wanted, but most of all, the unspoken ones.

They all dwell there; they light up, they burst,
I try to calm them down,
but they're too firm,
and I'm too weak to deal with them,
so I can only let them surround me, run over me, cut me apart.

I'm here, and I'm here.
And I'm not well.
I want to move there.
I'm going over there.
I'm here now.
And I'm not well here either.

I've got to go, and I've got to go back.
That's where it was better.
I'm back.
But it feels the same here.
Wherever I go, it's all the same.
I'm restless, restless, and restless.
I'm moving from one place to another,
hoping I'll find comfort as small as I can,
but every place is hot like coal.
Every place is as malicious as thorns.
Every place is half-hearted like a swamp.

I have no peace, and I have no order,
everything is buzzing around.
My mask's cracking, I can't hold it much longer.

I'm going to break down,
I'm going to break, and I'm going to break.
I'm going to crash under the screen of a grin.
What could be more romantic in a tragedy
than to fall with a rictus of helplessness?

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Song Of My Soul

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *