I try to phrase things right.
Really, I try so hard,
but the words seem to simply slip through my fingertips,
falling through the net of lies I've told myself
into the pile of snippets of language I've forgotten.
And when I try to retrieve then,
I get caught up in the fibers
I wove together to catch,
and cannot turn back,
cannot surface for air.
I sometimes wish
the net would unravel.
it would break,
letting me get to my beauties.
I wish it would fall apart,
it, instead of my life.
And my life is falling apart because of it.
Because the weaving is bad,
the fibers deceitful,
if you will,
but just as strong when needed.
I understand I'm not a weaver;
I shouldn't dedicate my life to it so...
deep inside me,
I think there is a good person,
waiting to rip through my skin and get out.
A good person who is able to unravel my past lies,
let me rest from my duties,
let me at my words,
my powerful anomalies.
And that good person,
waiting to come out,
will be a skilled weaver,
a skilled word-weaver,
who will help me find the right phrases,
while, simultaneously, un-weaving my web
and piecing my life back together.