Unspoken existence

Everything I have is borrowed. The words I write every
single day are the wisdom of thousands of years of labour.
 Each poem and each verse is born from passion,
from the toil of one person wanting to communicate an
 idea. Every person I have seen has stories which all
 pull on common elements, secrets that we keep. We watch
each other hang out laundry and wonder what notes the wind
 sings, and what notes we sing. We squirrel away pieces of
 paper folded over and over. Every day is a repetition of
 a never ending line of ink that, when inhaled, sustains
 some vital part of us. I write as a substitute to the
 naked blue sky. I write to paint it in an indescribable
colour. I write to set fire to the memories that I no
longer wish to keep. I write to wash myself of people
 whose very words still make me flinch.

— pavorst


I have wished for sun-marked, creamy skin,
But I’ve been given blemished, coarse canvas.

There have been times I have hoped for love,
But all I love is imaginary or untamable.

And it is in these dry leaves of autumn that I thrive,
For I am alive and that is all I need to be.

— kiddley