â„–78478[Quote]
For so long,
we try
to make sense
of the world.
Trying to find
Where we belong,
where we fit.
It's all distractions.
The true belonging
exists only with
the unspoken.
Maybe this
is why it
was never written.
It was never
supposed to.
It was meant
to be sensed.
To feel correct,
not be.
To be inarguable
is to be real.
But the inarguable
feels fake
It doesn't feel
real.
So it isn't.
But the emotion,
The unspoken
The felt and
poorly worded
is real.
Everyone knows it.
So everyone understands.
So it's real.
Not the fake real
of the screens,
of the news
But the
true real
of the sensation.
Not of sight,
but of
the soul.
The only poem
shared through time
perfectly.
We already know
the answer.
We were born
with it.
Like when we
were kids.
We were curious.
We tried
making sense.
We failed.
The solution?
To accept it.
We felt it.
And that
was enough.
And we
moved on.
We didn't fret.
We didn't care.
We knew.
We never phrased
it.
We couldn't.
Thing is,
We never
had too.
Maybe,
just maybe,
we shouldn't
phrase it,
to not
ruin
the moment.
â„–78514[Quote]
made a white tear drip down my legs, very tip touching