I'm the one who used to shout,
to speak, to write, and to unshroud
things that are, or might have been,
who used to laugh and cry out loud,
for calm-slayers are things he's seen.
The very voices in my head
that haunted me and made me write—
the ones I used to push and curse—
came uninvited day and night.
I only knew I want them when,
of course, they finally heard my calls
for freedom—no for loneliness.
Remember me, Remember me
as the one—the foolish one—who didn't know,
when overloaded by identities,
which to cherish, which to keep, and which to throw,
who wishes now he's kept the one that matters
and took the risk of being crushed below.
as a sailor or a fisher with an ax,
out of anger, or despair, or maybe boredom,
not seeing what he has but what he lacks,
starts making holes, wondering which one kills his ship,
and only when he's overwhelmed by the leaks,
would he remember he's not half as good a swimmer
as needed to outlive his deed and not to sink.
when the last echo of my dying scream
would fade away. Remember me
when all that's left of me would be my ink.
Header photo of me, Text first posted in my steem/hive blog
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