I am scribbles and riddles,
I wonder how I’ll keep these sentences strung,
Because I see my words from the tip of my fingers,
To the tip of my tangy tongue.
I hear the sounds of pen on paper,
I want to, but I can’t seem to escape her,
For I am only scribbles and riddles.
I pretend that I am self-reliant,
But the words in my story are surging,
They pop out of the book to taunt and tease me,
Their silhouettes are emerging.
I feel the exterior of my pages,
Scoffing as I read about all our fights and wars,
It’s sad that you were billions of chapters in my life
When I was only a line in yours.
I touch your lips while I mutter,
“Don’t tell me the things that you miss.”
I worry that you’re only giving me fiction,
“Do you know what love even is?”
I cry when you swallow the lumps in your throat,
We’re both tired of being so brittle,
But I can’t say much but whisper a hush,
Saying,
“I am scribbles and riddles.”
I understand that I have to close this final chapter,
Then erase myself from the narrative,
You keep your mouth closed, so
I say, “What you found trivial, I found imperative.”
Still, I dream for you a better life,
To find someone worth your narration,
Since it’s obvious now,
That I only brought you tears and suffocation.
I hope the person you meet next,
Is easy to write about, clear and visible,
But nothing like me,
For I am scribbles and riddles.