SpartanSpectator

The Unconventional Therapist

By Laura Prikosovich

 

Here

is safe,

Writing

 always safer,

Because my pen incapable

of stuttering as my lips do,

Words get stuck in throats

but never fingertips
 

Curses

instead of cursive,

We won’t stumble

across paper,

We save that for our

unfolded rugs,

Here we won’t

fall off the edges,

Because even if we do

It has elegance,

Balance idly follows poise

 

That’s why we have

our guides,

Solid trails of blue lines

Form our fountation,

Making            definite and clear,

our ideas, thoughts,

         selves

 

Reading this, you can't tell I’m crying,

   am i?

Reading this you can't tell me I’m wrong,

          how can words be wrong?
 

 

Thoughts can

we catch them,

Like thieves in the night

Slipping

In between the cracks,

green eyed warriors with broken smiles,

                                    broken promises

 

Thoughts becoming our subconscious bombs

underground, unheard,

We walk into no man’s land

without a cover,

stepping,

          testing our grounds,

       waiting for the blasts
 

So we write about our past,

romanticized

Our future,

anticipated
 

 

We write ourselves a map

because this time we’ll figure it out,

 this time,

the words will make sense

One day
 

Words will whisper,

tell us what we might not know,

            what we might not understand

Tell us our present

Can it be returned?

 

Writing makes things clear

our own words cannot hide the truth

 

Writing is real, raw, ridged

forever undisguised,


 

It can be whatever it wants

 whatever we might need it to be,

Either a "yours truly",
       or a "yours sincerely"

or maybe it was never really ours

Maybe it ends in

"best regards…"

 

Through written words alone

we can understand ourselves,           

Open up closed doors,

heal the cracks left behind,

By our green eyed monsters

that we never seem to find

 

Emoting becomes a cure all,

        end all,

        of time,

        of silent sufferings
 

We’re all born blind

we don’t see what we don’t understand,

what we never want to have to understand

Until we write it down

 unhinge

 

We stare into broken mirrors

the reflection of our ideas, opinions,

Unable to detect the fractions of light

or the scars we like to keep covered

 

Words,

an honest to god friend

Guiding,

through those blue lines

the hidden crooked valleys

magnified by our storms

our moments

 

All the in-between white spaces

missing pieces

we look to fill with black,

Making us finally learn to analyze

to ask ourselves

About those white li(n)es
 

Opening ourselves,

Trusting our words,

 

to the unknown