freewrite

on my date yesterday =] we went to go see Harry Potter because I still haven't seen it and I'm a HUGE Harry fan. the movie was a bit disappointing because they took out a good 3/4's of the book and changed up important details. but other than that it was still entertaining and conveyed the important stuff. after the movie, we talked and i told him about a poem i wanted to write. and on the train home, i wrote it.

I know that we are conditioned
to identify with the good guy:
the side that will undoubtedly prevail in a war of contradicting ideals
but what happens when you find yourself
identifying with the bad guy
i'm in the theater
trying to figure out
if fundamentally
a horcrux can actually exist
in a world existing outside of
platform 9 3/4
could i break my soul into pieces 
and protect its fragments
i can't help but feel as though
my soul has nomad coded into its genetics
and while my body craves stillness and breath
my soul has other ideas
they say rape victims
sometimes wear sneakers to sleep
and in the event that assault is more prevalent than dreams
sneaking up on them like grim reapers of pain
they have the tools necessary to escape
so maybe
given the amount of damage
that i've encountered
i'm subconsciously preparing the essence of my being to run
to at least have a fighting chance at survival
because sometimes
asking me to live is asking for too much
and this vessel, god-given and mad-made
seems ill equipped at protection
most times
i find myself tired
no amount of rest can cure a restless sprirt
i have to remind myself
that beds are for bodies
not souls
all of me can't seem to exist as one
there is no single unit here
just two sides of the same coin
like Harry
and Volde-- he who must not be named
I'm already in pieces
my reflection is my enemy
and if horcruxes are indeed evil
what will people say of my poetry
voldemort's first known horcrux was a journal
even evil knows the power of words
i wish simple people could too
i'm embedded in the punctuation
there is ink in my veins
and scars on my pages
language is as close to immortality as we can get
and when done right
my words manipulate feelings
my pages outweigh fate
and rewrite destiny
am i wrong for finding ways to preserve myself
and though i cut lines into my skin
like basilisk fangs in leatherbound books
i don't think i'll be okay with death being my final chapter
if there is no resurrection
then leave me be
i'll find ways to live beyond death
i'll keep using my pen as my magic wand
use journals for parchment
cast spells with titles
my soul is too restless to be acknowledged posthumously
and if i succeed
in tearing myself apart
will I ever be able to piece myself together?
immortality has its price.
so my soul can handle being broken
in ways my heart cant.

inspiration is everywhere.

anacaona