Chapter Text
In the midst of night, amongst the slick oil that drips down the dark canvas, a boy rises from his bed. Sleep has yet to recede from the forest eyes that capture the red blaring numbers at his bedside table.
2:47 a.m.
He stifles a groan, shuffles around in his sheets with restlessness boiling in his veins. His dreams are haunting - searing images in his mind that hopeless fingers could never grasp, setting his skin ablaze with a smile that'll never leave his eyes.
But he can't figure out what came over him, deep within the recesses of the dead night. What lured him out of the confinements of his safe, warm bed that keeps away his demons. All he can faintly register is the biting cold that washes over him, the sounds of shuffling feet across the mahogany floorboards, and the words racing in his thoughts, yearning to be free.
In his impaired state, he can't understand a damn thing. But his body moves on its own, gliding across the room with a sense of purpose that feels so foreign in his heart.
And it seems that there's something alive that beats in his soul, thrashing around his ribcage, as soon as he sits down at his desk. And as his lamp light comes to life in this darkness, he can feel it - feel his heart pounding with words unsaid; a passion, a desire, chasing away the numbness all the way from his neck to his toes.
So he doesn't stop the way his hands hungrily reach for the pencil and secures it in his grasp, nor the way his sorrowful words fly from his heart to the paper at his mercy.
And he doesn't stop the sounds of lead scratching the silence for the rest of the night.
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3.23 (2:50 a.m.)
Untitled.
I'm nothing but a boy -
Burdened with a life that'll never thrive,
Worn down by the world around him
Who buries him alive.
And as everything passes by me
I stay glued to my place;
Unable to touch, unable to walk,
Only able to watch, with a tragic fate
This is who I am, you see?
A shadow, worthless as the fallen leaves;
But I like to think I can be something
More, even if it's my deceit.
My words are but a whisper,
But perhaps they'll reach your ears
In the form of written poetry -
The dwelling of all my fears.
- y.a.