I Unravel:
like a spool of thread
made weightless by the wind.
Once heavy as led,
now light without sin.
I’ll do away my worries
with one last resort:
seventeen stories
to cut my own short.
I’ve run out of ink
and my quill-pen is broken,
nothing I think
is worth being spoken.
5 comments
I like this part:
“nothing I think
is worth being spoken.”
I can totally relate with it.
I liked this.
One bit I didn’t understand is “seventeen stories”. I might be to dense, or it’s a reference I don’t know, but I’d like to understand.
Jumping off the 17th floor of a building.
Goodness, Yup, if I ever need conformation of my rubeish state, I just got it. Thanks.
Nah, you’re fine.
(I over-analyzed way too much poetry when I was younger. Apparently doing so wasn’t a complete waste of time, since I can occasionally decipher cryptic texts written here).