A man is afraid
As he should be
He is afraid of living
Or rather of losing
Confusion about correctional directional suggestions
About where to take his life
Through strife and choices, his rejoices
but the beating voices
never drumming loud enough to be heard
and in the end no high note is clear
And among all the music that sings out sincere
Projection is good and this he reveres
But so many roles, and he became Lear
Stubbornness like a walnut shell
Its own contained hell roasted from the inside
Needs a squirrel, a girl whose doesn’t allow him to sulk in his silence
His self violence
Where to his detriment him being landlord, and tenant becomes a singular resident
Evident but the barriers he puts forward
Leave him silenced, and quartered
Divided, short-cited he knows the pain he causes
But him being him no commas no pauses doesn’t stop to think
though truly all he longs for is to marry her, to carry her to safety
But blatantly he shuts down
he stone walls till curtain calls, and he takes his bow
A concrete wall of indifference arises to no surprises
Blocking out the noise of laughter, and cheer
And instead all he hears
Are the sounds of echoes, and fears
They fall on partial ears his own
To which there is no solution
As all good meaning is reduced to dilution
A vast body of water
A midnight marauder who sought her and failed
And now pails at the thought of another attempt
Hail the solitude of the home for which he sits in alone.
He says I shall not recess back to what I once was: hopeful.
Jubilant. Not afraid of commitment
I was resilient. But the water is murky, corrupting
Ever coupling, heavy thinking with the sensation of sinking
Poetry isn’t hard, words on a page deserve no extol
Just hate yourself, and the lines they’ll role.
Even the brightest of us with our ambitions and goals.
We no longer can pay the toll to get into our own hearts
So we sit on our feelings till the meter restarts
And our man sits atop an edge of a garage or a cliff
A song in his heart, but his mind in a rift
And he writes to himself for there’s beauty in pain.
And when the voices cry silent his words will remain.
-A Hesitant Record of Myself
Link to the new google form (Read something new): This is a digital boot.