01:59

I cannot write
I never really did

Words would pour into my fingers just as blood swivels around the heart
Feeding with its life, striving for the air of the outside and for the poison which time provides
Sunlight is what makes me see my words, but darkness is their mother
In agony they were born and in the morning they burn again-to live once more

So you see?
I cannot write

Literature is not my guide, screams are the ones who share some whispers
Inside of you I twist and feel the coldness of my insanity that accompanies my fears

Words are all I couldn’t try to protect myself against
Lost and found again in an endless warmth of eternal voices and their tears
They speak to me through movement, through their pain, bearing no difference in their dance
but that of my own

I never did write
It is only what I am

Shadows of what I could know cross the surface of my dreams
They tell of lands and times anew and bear children of my ghosts
They bring them forth to me for the sacrifice of the mind
In the night, in discomposure, in what I myself would write.

And I never did know how to write.

Darkness in the light
Ghosts who will not die
Children who cannot cry…