It Speaks For Itself

This is another undated draft I found in my notebook.  It doesn’t have a title, but I know I was fighting a panic attach when I wrote it.  I’m going to say it was probably during the first few weeks of this semester when I hadn’t yet readjusted to this place or these people.  There’s more to this page than just the poem–there are doodles and single-lines, fragments of scribbles and sketches, some furiously crossed out.  Even now, as I look at it, I know exactly how I felt at the time.  The title of this post easily doubles as the title for this poem.


It Speaks For Itself

I don’t want to talk.

I just want to sit here.

I couldn’t put my head on your shoulder.

I couldn’t cuddle in your lap.

Maybe I would let you hold my hand,

but I could never reach for you myself.

I need you


but I can’t bring myself

to let go of the bitter shards

that I know you can put back together.


About thefreescribbler

My life is one of words. I am a scribbler, whose thoughts are best expressed through adjectives and phrases and punctuation marks. I would not go so far as to call myself a writer, although many would disagree. I’m characterized more by my unfinished works and half-embodied ideas, scraps of stories and parts of poems. Maybe one day I’ll be a writer, but I’m okay with being a scribbler right now. It fits my personality and style, and best expresses my aims. I’m not trying to create some lofty version of literature. I’m just a kid blogging about life. View all posts by thefreescribbler

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