I Can't Speak Anymore – A Poem

I don't speak anymore.
I can't speak anymore.
I don't want to speak anymore.
I can't want to speak anymore.

Seems as if my lips love each other too much get separated.
I feel so quiet and faint.
While typing, I sometimes decrease the size of the font.
When I read my words,
My mind even asks a few times,
To wrap itself around me.

I wonder if people look at me,
And see this mutilating silence?
Or, is it too surreal for anyone to recognize?
I wonder if they see the rock on my throat,
Under which my voice is trapped.
The heavy weight,
Erasing my voice to entirety.

Too tired to even lift it up,
I have completely given up,
And, I don't mind anymore.
The sadness of being used to it is shattering,
The peace has become defeaning.

- Oizys.

The August Forest – A (Prose)

As I walk through a dry forest, leaves and twigs crunch under my feet. Coarse and prickly feet with blemishes and blotches. Tired from carrying around a body full of hollow cries and heavy nothingness. I walk and walk to find nothing and then I run towards green moss path. I slip and fall and get up to go again. I see a door. A wooden door broken here and there, probably leading to nought. Desperate and scared as I am, I ramble my knuckles against the door. It creeks open to a home cramped up together in a room of a wooden box out in nowhere in the forest. A cot in a corner with a baby tucked in it like a jewel in a locked chest. The mother sits on the other side of the room, nearby a stove with bubbling spinach soup. The perfect camouflage. You never know if it is a crazy week-night supper or last wish borrowed from death’s warrant. I step into the warm nest of housekeeping. I touch the cheeks of the baby with my pale fingertips. She curls and coos in peace. The mother stirs in a fog. Walls covered with dilapidated paintings and desperate stories to tell. I try to feel the homeliness. I beg the mother to spare me a cup of warmness from the stew in the potjie as old as my iron mark. The mother says, “It is not yours to remove, nor yours bear.” I scream into oblivion. I scream to get rid of this brandished arm. I scream to absorb the pain stained through the ink of the hot iron. I scream and scream to find out the baby to be in the dark of my voice. Like my fate seemed to be in the dark of my suffering. 

- Oizys.