Nicole Faust's picture

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.

Sometimes wish

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,

easily torn,

but just as strong when needed.


I understand I'm not a weaver;

I shouldn't dedicate my life to it so...

but somewhere,

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,

and soon,

let me at my words,

my sentences,


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.



What would happen if you were

Sizzurp's picture

What would happen if you were to dive headlong into the net to tangle yourself up with this language? What if you were to get down onto its level, infiltrate its world, and write from that place of total abandon? Might be kind of fun...

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