матвей кайнер.
laughs but is really sad inside.
я криворукий, кособокий
ни танцевать, ни петь, ни быть
я не могу
но эти строки
хотели жить

They said every admission of failure was a salvation from future breakdowns, but I've been broke for whole eternity and a few years after, and no one has told me that I was too young to be broke, to be down or to be sad, because nobody saw me. Every significant action makes you more visible, like helping local shelter is a code with opacity level, and you are a web designer developing a beautiful page for an advertisement campaign. As if you stole the cloak from poor Harry and he got punished for actions he didn't do. Society taught him how it works very early. It's that simple - be broke or broke someone else. Nobody cared if you were broken before. Nobody cared if your fists were red and bled. Red is a colour of the wine, and wine is a drink of winners, but you'd get only torn grape. Sometimes I scroll down my news feed and see how depressed everyone is over some silly things - wrong smartphone colour, or wrong chocolate flavour. I get up, forced, every morning to make sure I'll get worse at the end of the end. I am the cuts you leave on yourself so you could see that your body has some pigment inside it, it's not pale and monochrome, I am the whisper wrapped rapidly in a sort of prayer, so you could ask God about something without being forced to look in his eyes - surprisingly humanlike. '... And God made the beast of the earth after his kind and every thing that creepeth...' and them he made Adam and Eve, and Eve rebelled because that's what an enraged woman would do if you'll try to lock her up. I am the fist you thrust into the wall in a deliberate attempt to calm yourself; I am the blood running down your wall and living marks on all of the white shirts in your wardrobe as if those shirts were angel wings. But they are not, and you've got a geometry class to be on, so you change syllables and you get 'angle' because being sharp has always saved you from being hurt. I never was neither a product of bad parent care nor half care nor non-care, because I cared about myself, I cared to be dead and long gone. A hug is just an another attempt to hide your face, 'cause, really, 'liar, liar, cheeks on fire.' They said history is written with failures, but I didn't believe them. Because history is written with words, and I've become perfectly good with making them up from nowhere.

Yesterday I felt this strange half pain inside my stomach. It felt almost like someone stabbed me in a belly and then watched, calmly, how I bleed. Like every drop of my blood was a treasure and this someone needed to be sure I won't gave it all up to a stranger. As if my blood meant something. As if I meant something. Time is a suicide-bomber with whom you sit near in a subway. He trusts you with his dynamite, and you betray him because that's all you do - betray those you care about the most. He gave you his gun and asked 'Wouldn't you rather be dead?'. And then his bag, filled with explosives, detonated. You probably would rather be dead, but that's not your decision to make. You are a student loan given to your family, and you have no freedom whatsoever. Bled almost to death, I wore your skin yesterday. Sore skin, swallowed ankles, I wore your skin for the longest time. You had green eyes, so I wanted to beg your forgiveness. You had none. A fake clown's nose flowing red, feeding lies to those he welcomed in his house, learned to laugh and then tricked. I wore your skin yesterday, purple bruises flecked with yellow, filled with purity. I had no skin of mine, so I wore yours for the longest time. The feeling of safeness is measured not by how many police officers are outside your house watching the perimeter, but by the amount of numbers in your phone book you can call late night and ask to come, whatever the reason is. And by the amount of hands you can try to reach for silent support, but you rejected the first one and had no latter. I wanted to scream for you, to ask for one final look on me thrown rapidly in the dark, but I bled in the light of day, and you lived in another time zone. I spurted silently, while butterflies in my stomach hatched. They were spotless, and I was not.


@музыка: Somewhere Only We Know by Keane

@настроение: Every single one's got a story to tell, everyone knows about it from the Queen of England to the hounds of hell.

@темы: spoken word poetry, добро пожаловать на дно, литературщина, ноа купил себе маяк и остался там жить