some mysteries aren't meant to be solved,

like why images chase through the vessels in my brain

and endlessly beg to be released, to be put out on paper, negotiating that any surface would do,

ensuring that containment would not see me through,

and when I find a notebook and a fully inked pen,

they stop running, their unseen limbs become useless and they leak,

mostly as tears as I sit over the notebook

and taint the undeserving page with disappointment in form of water, dissatisfaction that I can never do better,

and pure, harsh bitterness for allowing myself to allow those thoughts in, each and every time being vulnerable to the bad side of me.

a hundred times more than one, I've had to sit, stupefied, more or less, undignified, but

I'll leave that mystery as a mystery, and let it be,

let it keep its cursed magic, and ignore its dexterity,

be forever in ignorance, blissfully, but,

still,

I wish,

I wish that I'd known,

I wish that I knew that the mind can only decide upon

what the heart has already accepted to feel.

(@lolaaa99)