literature

An open letter

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Only-L's avatar
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Published:
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Literature Text

I'd like to write about me
in the plainest words,
or, better yet, not utilize
a human tongue at all.

For words are seldom meaningful
and only sketch where they should strive
to care- and thoughtfully describe
the detailed truths and hidden lies.

Yet still I wish to write of me;
explain, in detailed sketches
things I do not understand –
nor ever hope to have explained.

Consider this an open letter;
friend to friend,
from fool to fools,
a message to the wind:

Were I to tell you of myself,
in person, not in written word,
I'd joke, tell excerpts of my life
and never show the storm inside;

This storm, so meagrely described
by all I'll ever do or say
is source of what goes on in me
of motion, movement, peace and strife;

It leads me from without within me,
lets me dream the world outside
with waking eyes and fully conscious;
paints the ways in front of me.

In some ways I am good and righteous
or at least prefer to be
shown other situations you would surely
break your bonds and ties with me.

I've often lied and never killed,
I cannot break this habit,
likewise I get down at least
a week or two a year.

But still I pray to gods of men
if only to my own
and fear the devils, hastily
described by words of them.

I'm not much use for talking with
or entertaining strangers;
have my fears and prejudice
both based on facts and not.

I tend to talk for hours and days
if I find any point to start
and yet tend not to talk at all
for even longer terms if not.

Yours dearly, the writer, who feels that an ending
to this special letter would somehow be wrong,
but whose limited lifetime prevents him from adding
more details to maps of his mind like this.
:)
© 2010 - 2024 Only-L
Comments16
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TurEsrald's avatar
Hmmm... So... A man who cannot fathom himself (much like others of his brethren). A quiet one, unless roused with the right words. Often speaks out of society's expectations, rather than on his own. Likable in a ways, detestable in others (yet would that come to the surprise of any of his kith?). A tormented spirit, a wound that does not close. It bleeds ink from which he writes.

Now... That may not be everything (I needn't do nor know), yet tell me friend: have I fathom well and rightly so?