O it’s too late… O you’re too late; yet again
choking on the “love you”s you never spelled out.
O it’s over… O this song’s done too, and you
are still stuck, gasping for breath to hum the intro.
How long were you planning to be this?
To be this shipwreck of thoughts…
to home all this self-induced agony…
to become more yourself than you’ve imagined,
reigning in silence over your kingdom
of embarrassment, locking yourself up
in your fortresses of awkwardness, hiding
beneath your throne of weird shyness, cloaked
in the invisibility of your inexplicable desires
AND your disability to choke the life out of them
because you’re a godforsaken island of desolation
harbouring feelings still, for extinct relationships,
waving goodbyes to flights from past lives,
stopping at a green that hasn’t been a red in ages,
waiting for a line in a song that has been cut out
to make room for more instruments because words suck
and whatever’s untold among lips is always sexy when eyes tell
and that is why speech is so overrated, my friend, because
the silences are over romanticised these days and guess what?
Your subconscious has assumed the same too and you have
tried that same thing… to express in the unsaid but you know fucking what?
It’s an utterly nonsensical musical; your life is, because it’s your fault.
It is entirely your fault because you’ve tried poetry when you already knew
it was a language dead since before you were born, spoken no more
and you’ve spoken in thought… in how much thought you put into people
and their love and their passion and their feelings that you’re assumed to be
naturally so when you’re actually not and your interest towards the people you love
is generalised to your so called “love all” nature because you are such a joke and
in how you’d like to make that one person smile and what hell you could move
to be a reason for that one smile, at least once a year and the way you invest yourself
into the words you scribbled onto those crackling wrapping papers you’ve so delicately
used to nestle your feelings for that person in… in how you inked your soul onto
cardboard boxes and greeting cards and letters and notes… and for what?
The unsaid is out of fashion, pal! You gotta spell it out. You have to say the words.
Because otherwise, you’d be this dumbfound idiot left staring after arrays of people
being shipped out of his life just because he was too socially anxious to express,
a lamer too depressed and a coward too scared of rejection no matter what hell
he’s been through cuz who gives a shit? The unsaid is out of fashion, my friend.
So when you find yourself staring after a person you love slowly falling in love
with another person, know it in your heart that it’s your fault. It is your fault…
because you are your own little cloud of betrayal following overhead.
Because heartbreak is your religion, because silence has become your tongue,
nostalgia, your home & loss, your possession & irony your life and guilt, your anthem;
because you’ve let your fear of rejection become need for alternative expression
and you will permit yourself to grieve this love lost over your cowardice
because, my friend, you haven’t said a thing and the unsaid is out of fashion.