Write

My hands ghost over keys as thoughts rumble inside my head,
Barely audible as words, but loud noises, obscurities left better unsaid. 
You haven't written in awhile, my friends say, 
and I want to tell them each day,
I sit by a vessel waiting, to be careless and honest with words.

But writing in truth is as baring yourself to the world,
It's as letting them walk into a museum of art, 
where you are hung upon its ghost white walls, 
and gasping strangers point and marvel 
as they riddle the descriptions because they don't know; 
Which era, which color, who painted or why; 
What purpose, how worth, is the paint even dry;
Is it finished; unfinished? True stories or lies? 
I'm scared, 
My head has in it, tall walls, that reach up to skies 
With portraits of a future and scattered memories of a child  
I am hung 
In front of a thousand strange eyes.
I’ll write, I promise.
I tell my own self, as I sit down to ponder 
beneath these heavy shelves of thought, and wonder
“Would they really listen, if it's merely a canary, crying from it’s caged prison”
I’ll write, I promise,
but all I have yet
are drafts of letters that each night written to death. 

Numbing wounds that I inflicted on myself, 
and biting down words I've wanted to scream,  
‘The world doesn't need to hear, the world doesn’t need to see, 
wounds of a battle where nightmares creep
and crimson bullet holes where seldom rests peace.' 
I wash away the blood and cover rising aches I feel,
But wounds that don’t bleed are still not ready to heal.
And on paper a war is grandeur but futile 
Though poets only grieve when mothers weep their war beaten dead child. 
Though perhaps when the titan skies once again cover with azure calm mornings, 
I'll tell you of razor edges, burning cries and the loud battle callings. 

By Rtr. Dinili Gunasena

Image Credits:

• https://tinyurl.com/4t8sdsrv