Don’t talk to me, whisper to my ear
For it is the only part of my being willing to hear.
Pierce me with your toxic spear,
Paralyze me by way of your poison with fear.
Infiltrate my mind, adjust my gear... now nothing is clear
I don’t recognize myself, only you in the mirror
You made me, I'm your creation… I adhere
I’m stagnate without your lifeless dexterity to steer.
I do not care how severe or beautiful it may appear
You’re the artist, I'm the canvas, and my heart is yours to smear
Never leave me alone
My malevolent pioneer.
About the Creator
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The Unnecessary Line
I. The Line No One Asked For There is a line drawn in quiet ink between what matters and what we pretend does not. It rests unnoticed at the margin of our days, thin as a whisper, fragile as dust on forgotten shelves. We call it unnecessary— that extra sentence, that soft apology, that pause before goodbye. We strike it through with hurried hands. We erase it with confident erasers. We fold the page and move on. But the line remains. It lingers in the corner like a shadow at noon, small but stubborn, refusing to disappear. And though we label it useless, though we cross it out twice, it hums beneath the surface like a secret we cannot silence. II. In the Middle of the Page Sometimes the unnecessary line sits in the middle— interrupting logic, breaking symmetry, ruining the perfection we worked so hard to design. It does not rhyme when the others rhyme. It does not fit the rhythm of the room. It stands alone, awkward and uneven, like a thought spoken too honestly in a world rehearsed. And we dislike it for that. We prefer our stories clean, our emotions trimmed, our paragraphs disciplined like soldiers in formation. But the unnecessary line refuses formation. It wanders across the page, leans into white space, breathes where others hold their breath. It dares to say what the polished lines avoid: “I am afraid.” “I am uncertain.” “I am not finished.” It is the line that trembles. The line that breaks voice. The line that carries truth without decoration. III. The Line Between People There is another line— invisible, but heavier than ink. The line between you and me. The one drawn by pride, by misunderstanding, by words unsaid and apologies delayed. We think it is unnecessary. We say, “It’s nothing.” “It doesn’t matter.” “Forget it.” But the line grows. It thickens with silence. It sharpens with distance. It stretches across rooms until even laughter cannot cross it. What we call unnecessary often becomes a wall. And what we refuse to write becomes the loudest absence in the book of us. If only we would write that extra line— “I was wrong.” “I miss you.” “Let’s begin again.” One simple sentence could erase a thousand carefully constructed barriers. IV. The Line We Cross There is also a line we promise never to cross. A boundary of fear. A border of doubt. A quiet edge where dreams hesitate. We draw it ourselves— a neat division between who we are and who we might become. “This is enough,” we say. “This is safe.” And beyond that line lies risk. Beyond it— possibility. We tell ourselves that stepping over it is unnecessary. Why chase more? Why risk falling? Why disturb the familiar ground? But the unnecessary line is often the doorway disguised as a warning. The step we fear is sometimes the step that carries us forward. The dream we dismiss as unrealistic may simply be waiting for courage to underline it. V. The Final Line At the end of every poem there is a final line. Some are grand. Some are quiet. Some echo like thunder. Some fade like mist. But imagine if the last line never existed. If the poem simply stopped— mid-thought, mid-breath, mid-heartbeat. Would it feel complete? Perhaps the unnecessary line is not unnecessary at all. Perhaps it is the breath between chaos and clarity. The space where meaning settles. The small stitch that holds the fabric together. The extra word that turns a statement into a confession. The gentle pause that turns noise into music. Maybe the unnecessary line is the most human of all— imperfect, hesitant, honest. It may not shine like the others. It may not stand tall in bold ink. But it carries something rare: The courage to exist without permission. So leave it there— that crooked sentence, that fragile truth, that vulnerable whisper. Let it remain in the margin of your life. Because sometimes the line we almost erase is the line that saves the poem.
By AFTAB KHANabout 12 hours ago in Poets
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