numb
as if light is about to fill the world for the very first time;
you try to be a poet.
you try to be a poet by trying to become a poem; a poem as soft as light filling the world for the first time; how do you write about nocturnal lovers? how do you not see the darkness surrounding the stars? how do you not burn with the sun at noon?
in a strange way, you breathe hope. maybe you are too tired to be angry? who knows?
you try to be a poet who can live without writing a war poem. it’s almost disrespectful, don’t you think? they say artists carry a responsibility of creating a better world. why do you write like you already live in a better one?
even after all this, i feel i understand you. they say you’re indifferent. but, i can see, you’re really just numb.
