Spoken Word + Blackout

Spoken Word:

Don’t Cry.

You can’t buy happiness. You can make it, share it, or even find it. And yet you can’t buy it. I wonder why it’s so easy to steal then.

If you can make your own happiness, then why would you steal mine? If you steal it, you won’t gain it. And yet you snatch it from me anyways. You snatch this invisible comfort from me, crumple it up, mock it. 

You break it. 

Every single time, you break it. You hold it up to my eyes and force me to watch you shatter it. The little pieces, unfixable, unrecognizable. I wonder if you laugh behind that anger.

Maybe you make your own happiness when you see others lose theirs. Does it inspire you? Does it satisfy your ache of emptiness, knowing that you can make others empty too? Or, do you still believe you can have it for yourself? Do you believe that you can trade joy for pain, even though you already know you can’t replace the hole you made with another? Why don’t you learn, even after experimenting thousands of times? How much evidence do you need? 

You steal it from me. You might say that I can easily remake it, but why would I keep remaking something you’re going to break? It doesn’t make sense. You only realize how deep your void is when you remember how full it used to be. You dig deeper every time, and I cry everytime, and yet you keep testing to make sure your answer is accurate because you don’t like the answer. Why do you hate me? Or why do you hate seeing my happiness? Do I threaten you? 

Am I your reminder of what you want (what you need), what you aim for (what you hurt for), what you have dedicated yourself to (what you intentionally empty others for)? Is it funny? In your world, is taking that same as giving, is anger the same as joy, is breaking the same as making? Why do you do it again and again?

Maybe it’s reassurance. That you’re still in control. That you know what you’re doing. That you hold the power. Are you actually powerful if you have to steal to feel complete? Do you need to steal in order to feel adequate enough that you will trade in the remainder of your joy for a taste? You tell me that my tears are useless. That they make me useless. Why do you keep bringing them back? To tell me that same line again? To push the dagger in just a little bit deeper each time? 

How often do you lie to me?

It’s delicate yet whole, it’s elegant yet casual, it’s comforting yet vulnerable. Open the flood gates. Let it rain again. Let it be destroyed. This little light of mine. Let me hide it from you. Why would you take away what lets me be me? Maybe you don’t like me. Maybe you don’t like you. But that’s a secret, don’t tell anyone. Don’t let the truth be the truth, because then the roles would be reversed. Once a thief, always a thief. Funny how that works out.

I can’t say anything. I can’t steal it back. I can’t fix it. Are you testing my resilience? Is this your duty, your responsibility? Say it again. Tell me it’s for my own good. Poison is still poison, whether it’s in apple juice or alcohol. It still kills. I still die. And yet, what if next time, I don’t? What if I remain unaffected, and watch you watch me, and let your certainty shatter just like my happiness? Or, what if I die this time, and never come back? You keep testing the theory again and again, and yet, even though you don’t actually like the result, it’s better than something different happening. That’s why you don’t actually break me. Just my happiness. Just the structure of my soul. That’s ok. 

It hurts. Why are my bedsheets drenched in absence? Why do I stay away from you? Why can’t I just be happy? The easiest questions to answer, yet I don’t give you the right responses. I don’t give anyone the right responses. I’m not happy. I’m not me. I’m not okay. But don’t tell anyone, that’s my secret. After all, the weak depend on lies. Maybe my tears do make me useless.

I can’t buy happiness. I can make it, share it, or even find it. And yet I can’t buy it. I wonder why the most valuable resource in our lives is one that can form or vanish in seconds, yet is the most plentiful and scarce at the same time.

I wonder if I’m turning into you.

Author Comments:

I don’t like this spoken word. In fact, I probably hate it.

I wrote this all in one sitting yesterday night. Life hit hard, and I lost it. I didn’t have any control over anything. Everything just kinda plummeted, and it dragged me down with it. If I’m honest, it was a reality check. A reminder of the little box of rage I carry with me. I genuinely hope no one reading this ever understands what I’m feeling right now.

I didn’t know what to do. There was nothing to do. I was not me. Just raw, ugly emotion. So I put that monster on this page and walked away. I drew hatred from my hidden reserve and strung this together. I hate it, because it is my hate. I don’t want to be this person.

I don’t know if writing made me feel better, but I do know that it made me believe my thoughts. That said, they are not nice thoughts. They are ugly and abusive and of bad intent. I’m embarrassed to say they are mine. I don’t know if I actually want people to read them. I just want to leave it all here and forget. I already don’t want to read the comments. At the same time though, if I don’t post this, I don’t know what I will. So I guess this abomination is here to stay.

In terms of the structure of my poem, at the time, my mind was spitting fire, and so the tone of the writing depicts that. It’s aggressive and choppy and insecure (just like me teehee), and that’s shown through the short questions and the long accusations. I also tend to use the “rule of three” in this piece quite a bit. While others might say that listing three things in a row is the strongest way to support a statement without making it drag on, I just find it’s natural. It builds up the thought in levels, making the final statement feel lasting. Along with that, it just sounds better to me. When I talk, I do the same thing, and it just kind of made its way into this poem without me thinking about it. I used metaphors and similes throughout, such as the poison and the comparisons to happiness, which were really just a way to relay a feeling or highlight something indirectly.

If I’m honest, the use of literary devices didn’t even occur to me when I wrote. It wasn’t my priority. The reason I wrote every single line just comes down to the fact that it felt true. It felt like it needed to be written that way for me to feel like I was the writer. I needed to write in a way that I was comfortable, as I wrote about my discomfort. Everything is written in this way, because I wanted to write in the voice that I was feeling. That’s why there are big gaps to relay pauses, and bolded words to express emphasis. I have no other reason for it. I don’t know how else to explain it.

In the end, I’m not sure what the purpose of this poem was. It’s just here. I guess I was really dedicated to sharing my soul on this blog, huh? Either way, it’s done, so it’s staying. I’m not going to let it bother me.

Blackout Poem:

• 

• 

• 

DON’T CRY.

i find you in The others too.

you made me remember to cry.

do you break the same as i do or feel my tears each time? 

lie to me.

Let me hide from you.

don’t like me.

I can’t lie again.

break me.

tears scar

-Simran Sidhu