The Words Are Calling.

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.


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