They say I write beautifully,
they don’t know the beauty
comes from tragedy.

 

I think unspeakable things;
of death and blood and sins,
and I let my darkness free;
my untamed imagination to take wings.

 

I think unspeakable things—
that’s why I write
in spite
for many things.

 

I imagine unspeakable beings.
Magical fairies and demons bent on killing.
Princes on toads and characters from TV shows.
Out from my head,
in my dream they go.

 

I write the unspeakable,
for the reactions are unbearable.

 

How can I talk about sorrow
without causing brows to furrow?
How do I express and muse
without having to prepare an excuse?

 

I write what’s unspeakable here
to tell what no one wants to hear.
So I reform it into art and writing,
so they call it beautiful and inspiring.

 

They don’t know of the unspeakable things.
They don’t know of what’s unspeakable within.

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