Silent

Who is here to be my sanity other than myself?

My sanity is a not solid thing

It is translucent and flowing

Exhaling into my mind, and the world, and my reputation

My friends, they think that I am broken or perfect and no in-between

And my sanity does too.

I never appreciate being fine until I am lost

And inhaling a darkness with every breath that I take

And maybe I am just a poet

Who makes up the fear of the self to find something interesting in the mind

To place into the page where it will be more immortal than the one human who writes it

Because my immortality is one in which I am whole and perfect

And so to write and record the brokenness does it somehow do something?

Maybe not, maybe I am just blind

Or deaf to what my own words and self are trying to tell me

Through the little combinations of letters on a digital or paper page

Both with the power to make me bleed

But how often is it that others are the ones bleeding from what I say

So I do not say it at all and land here in the middle

Of thinking that the world cannot survive if I do not write the things that I do

And of the world in which it would be better if I was ____

-Annelise

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