Incomplete.

I have written a million writings and a hundred thousand poems, a hundred thousand papers got crumpled and thrown away and a hundred thousand papers are hidden somewhere waiting for someone to collect all the missing words and place each one in the suitable place. Maybe the papers are empty because I’m empty, and maybe I’m too full to spit my thoughts out on paper. Maybe the words are too stubborn and they refuse to get out; maybe they fell in love with being imprisoned inside my head. Maybe they don’t want to be released; maybe they don’t know what freedom is anymore. The possibilities are endless.

Everything I write is incomplete and unfinished, and an incomplete writing that could be something turns into nothing due to the nonexistence of the right words. Just like having the great opportunity to make things right and retrieve what went missing but instead you fuck everything up by enunciating the wrong words, and poof, your great opportunity is gone.

Words are ambidextrous; they can do miracles. They can heal and they can break, it’s prodigious how one word can change everything forever, and the power of a bunch of words combined together is matchless. Sometimes you long for those three words that could make everything better and sometimes you hear this one word that means you and your soul mate have to part, never to reunite again. That tide of emotions and feelings you get when you hear those words you have always wanted to hear from that special somebody and you carry those words inside your heart for a lifetime. What about those words that shatter you and turn you into absolute nothingness? Those words that fuck everything up, those words that make it hard for you to breathe.

And once again I’m wordless and uninspired. And once again I let one of my writings remain incomplete forever.