Entities

We are all but entities
Of our own selves
Whole yet empty,
Passionate yet plodding.

All of me is just an embodiment,
Of the different monsters that
Come to live in me.
All of me is like a canvas

A canvas that is played upon.
Not like the canvas of the night sky
That is beautiful to look at;
This canvas is almost grey.

It's colours are paler than pale
And duller than dull. It looks
Like the colours were spilled untidily,
By children who were only playing.

But the canvas, oh the canvas
It can feel the pain
Of being twisted and turned
And stretched and pulled.

This body can feel the pain
This entity isn't dull.
It feels every emotion walk in;
It feels every emotion pierce out.

This entity is breathing and feeling
Even if it has to come face to face
With its own monsters- the old ones
That like to pay kind visits.

This entity feels every emotion
An outburst of cry
Or a rage of anger
It is tired of building facades.

And so it will continue to vent
Its emotions on paper.
It will continue to write
As long as the monster pays visits.

We are all but entities
Of our own selves.
But thank the inventors of
The paper and pen.

For entities like me will always need these
To pour our emotions out.
To let ourselves get buried
Under pages of ink.

And entities like me
Will always use writing as therapy.
We let our hearts bleed
Into these lifeless sheets of paper;
To confront our monsters.

15.03.19

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