I write and I write and I write, until my fingers bleed and my knuckles cramp and still the words seem scrambled; a giant fantasy of letters and punctuation that skip gleefully about, rolling over the blue lines like waves, unaware of their pink boundaries.
So I think and I think and I think, but my mind becomes one large white square with ink blots like a Rorschach test where everything has two meanings, sometimes there, sometimes a million. No matter how many times I shake the page and rearrange the ink it comes out all wrong. Nobody ever sees the page the way I do, but I don't blame them. It would be next to impossible to see my butterfly and understand I see razorblades.
But I try and I try and I try to develop this piece of work into a beautiful poem, deeply ingrained with truth, so that everyone will read it and say "that fits him so well". The blots become words again, but they do not form pattern.
I will betray
leave you
never never
I could.
I will never betray you. I could never leave you. But oh God! I can never say it the right way.
I wrote this one night after a discussion with my current girlfriend. She claimed that my view of our relationship was merely based on "fantasy" and not "reality". She said that the reasons I gave her for wanting to be with her were just superficial, and that the love I spoke of should run deeper than the words I was giving to it. This was my response.
