I’m tired. I’m tired of hiding who I am behind incoherent words of poetry. I am tired of people only ever appreciating a paragraph of true, heartwrenching emotions if it comes in a pretty, dainty, sugarcoated package of conveniently placed adjectives.
I did it again. It’s been engrained into my fingers because I’ve taught myself that people will only listen if what I have to say is pretty and unharsh to the ears, or otherwise it is lost in space. Bluntness is under-appreciated and therefore scorned as a boring essay.
Well I say, screw it.
I could write a paragraph about the intricate eccentricities of my puny, unimportant life. In fact, I did. I actually just wrote a couple paragraphs of unabashed truth about myself. I was the freaking gospel.
But I erased it. Cause the pure, blunt honesty of it all made me uncomfortable.
Then again, maybe that’s the reason why we like to write pretty words, why we can’t escape it. We are hiding behind the sheer lace curtain of poetry.