The Clickety-Clack

I know that I am way too young to set things right, too naïve to write, 

Let me write,

And I gave myself the permission to think that your elderly eyes need to trace back their sight into the rabbit's hole you once loved to hide inside. 

To think that maybe your skin is craving the pixie dust you could only get from wonderland to which you lost the way.

Let me write because I think you may understand the reasons why I'd put my feet in those shoes that are much larger than my size..

So hush, watch me as I bind those tongue-twisting thoughts into senseless words; tie them to paper so they wouldn’t be jumping around in my mind, 

Let me pretend for a second that I know what I’m saying because maybe the clickety-clack of my keyboard buttons could be loud enough to fill the cruel silence of night.

I think that the noise of nails on a chalkboard awakens my senses,

that scratching paper with a pen is the only way to cure my itches.

So let me give myself some worth by deluding it with the thought that maybe the angels on the shoulders of the universe are too busy doodling sick images on the margains of the record books and somebody should be writing.

Give me chances to be vain enough to believe it’s me.

I know I’m probably bluffing, stuffing blank spaces with blasphemy,

undressing words of their meanings and using them senselessly.

But let me bluff.

Let me write about love.

and I am aware that I’m probably way too young to know the first thing or two,

Too lost to figure my own way through,

But I've read enough love poems to know that love is none but your own series of taking wrong ways, tumbling on misunderstandings, repetitive crashlandings, 

and overusing cliché images everybody uses:

pitless holes of misuses,

broken hearts and body bruises.

So let me mistake love for lust and admiration for obsession and then crash into the awaiting deadends of disappointments I can already see without your “I told you so”s turning the signs the opposite way just so I could follow your concept of right. 

Let me write. 

About the long nights when your heartbeats beg of you to translate their rythyms into rhymes.

When you failingly try to stuff the bullet holes in your chest with words and so all of your breaths come out as sighs. 

“Inkstains, flashbacks, hidden prayers in disguise, 

Silhouttes, sandstorms, the mixture of colors in the skies, 

melancholy, solitude, moonlight and sunrise, 

Revolution, gunpowder, spilling blood, and demise.”

Let me tell you about how it felt for a historian to carry the burden of the memories of the conquests, the crusades, and the Great Fire of Rome in a chest that grew tighter than a bottle's neck,

And excuse me for using you as target practice but maybe your skin needs to feel the heat of a flame for you to realize that the warmth running beneath your feet is that of blood shed in a battle,

and I know that you can see that my face isn't scarred enough to know the meaning of the word,

and my hands are too shaky to know what it's like to unsheath a sword,

But let me write about war. 

About the ceiling that crumbles and falls upon your head six bloody thousand times through one eve,

about the smell of burnt concrete and melted steel that lingers in the corridors and allies of your chest and won't leave,

about waking up to the remaining walls of your neighbourhood dyed red with the blood of who you were told was your friend,

About the lights that shone bright but casted nothing upon us but darkness,

See I looked for the honor of dying in a battle on the faces of those slain knights,

but I couldn't find it. 

I tried to withstand the glory in being a piece in someone else's chessboard but I couldn't withstand it.

There's nothing logical about patriotism.

why fight for a piece of land? That, I wouldn't understand,

I mean look at what “home” does to you: 

kicks you down and dusts you...

Yet, I still wear my home upon my sleeves,

wrap it around my neck and have it circulate the7 bottom of my ringfinger,

it's where my nightly thoughts linger, 

it's where my devil cannot reach,

and my angel cannot preach, 8

home is a truce that puts the battlefields on my shoulders at peace,

it's an arm that's always stretched, ready to collect me into one piece.

So when it occurs to you that my heartbeats are too quite for the echo of the world to repeat,

And you can see that things are too wrong for me to set things right on my own...

let me write. 

writing feels like home.