Who do I want to hear me?
Even if someone hears me what could they do?
I sit here and silently scream, using these written words to beg for some sort of clarity or understanding, thinking maybe when I read back to these half formed thoughts I can somehow figure out who I am.
The question isn't who I want to hear me, because I usually keep my words hidden
Unnecessarily so, but hidden they are and hidden they will remain
Maybe I enjoy being stuck in silence
Why should I share my words, my thoughts, when no one will grasp the meaning behind the faltering lines I use as I try and clarify me for myself?
Words can be used for so many things
I sit and read the works of my literary heroes and am baffled by the ease in which they seem to transcribe their thoughts and feelings onto the page.
How quickly they transport me into the world they desire me to see,
The pictures I paint are muddy and unsure, my capabilities limited by the pain of confusion I myself feel.
How can I offer insight to what goes on in my mind and soul when I don't understand what goes on myself?
The thin scraps of understanding weave a very empty unconvincing picture, it might as well be no picture at all.
How can I hope to share these half finished abominations to the world?
To have these thoughts heard and shared, further misunderstood, when all I crave is clarity.
Maybe out there is someone who can untangle the threads for the rest of my story,
The likelihood of that is astronomical, so I'd rather my words go unheard.
For now anyway.