Elucidating Questions

People do kind things, some yell at you for no reason, some are kind in strange ways.

Some are indifferent to things that should bring joy and gratitude,

Some refuse to admit when they make mistakes.

Some are good, just because they are.

Can you prove that love exists when sitting alone in a box with things?

The answer isn’t as simple as the pieces of people in the pages or on the screens or in the paintings or on the vases,

The creation of the representation better for behind closed doors where thoughts flow and emotions are not on trial.

The proof of love can only be seen, observed, must be noted to be put down in pages.

Producing love from nothing, the insurmountable task of continuing it or else.

Or the question may never be answered outloud.

How I wish I could be answered aloud, the question I stopped answering.

It doesn’t mean it’s not there, it means it hurts.

The absence of it is not the proof of it not existing but it existing in a state than cannot be conveyed.

Words are not enough. They will never be enough.

If they come out they may hurt and I can’t do it, can’t do it anymore. Thought it was wanted, I was wrong.

In one’s own falling, over and over,

The words

It hurts so much, like a stone in my chest that beats off time and I try so hard to find something else, something with feeling.

The stone hurts, the stone weighs, it was wings once.

I am weak, I am the one who loses sleep, I am the one who heard a call without hearing it to stand up as that silent majority.

Do you want to hear me?

Do you hear what the awakening suddenly causes?

Catch the link and slow down, because I did what was posited I rushed and ran and did everything I could to cause something different

And it didn’t matter, and no one stood up with me.

Crying for change while covering the hand of the screaming.

It feels like I will never matter, the songs that will never be sung.

So start, and run, as I did, and burn as they watch and never hold out a hand.

Or take it slow and try to remember that you are a light that should never fade out, that it matters.

You’ll matter if you have people who love you and think you matter.

I am the one sacrifice that was made for no reason other than to try something.

I suppose I should have heard my own warning

That there was an order to feed the machine,

And that I didn’t realise I was following it.

They’ll all watch.

They won’t hear me.

But they’ll hear anyone else,

I am merely the false pretenses of thinking I was on the right track.

Someone else will do better, there is always someone better.

What did they actually want from me I wonder?