Behind this façade of cheer and bliss
lies the gloom and dejection within
in a void of emotions
you'll find my joy has run thin

deep within the mirror...
lies a portrait of me
deep within the mirror...
I don't like what I see.

In the confines of four corners
lies the imagination of a child
the imagination becomes endless, it's own universe expanding about
and it is in this instance that the world is missing out

Missing out on the endless possibilities to attain
self control on levels of infinite realities
to seek itself in a mirror and to create what isn't, plain
old Joe they said, they didn't offer a chance

the chance to lay the identity on the table, rather it has been prescribed
ascribed, it has become- no longer seeking but just a glance
at which once was, but isn't no more

the four corners have contracted inward
no more imagination to draw
from, what happens now is not serene
the dark is welcomed, the light exiled
there's not much to reconcile
what was once a rose bush, now just thorns
the days are rejected, the night adorned

when words fade and objects come alive
mysticism arrives to die

Isn't it funny how we underestimate the power of our voices?
this sound that emanates from our throats, formulating words...
...are not just noises

Right?
I'm guessing it's pretty silly to assume that our voices are just perfectly placed noises, combining to converse with others, argue with others, woo others, defend others, offend others...

And it occurs to me that my voice, is not used the way I want it to be
instead, it's being limited. Limited to the sombre pleasures of others
entertaining people who probably don't bother, much about me
instead my voice is caged up, way up in my own thoughts

They say talking to yourself is the first sign of schizophrenia
do people who fear talking talk to themselves? Glossophobia they call it.
I say talking to others contributes to our enraging insanity
the society that conceals my voice, taints the will to be heard.

One day I got up from my seat in class to say a speech
I was surprised with what I was about to meet.
first came the silence, then the bafflement
people for the first time got the chance to hear my voice

Bewilderment? yes, Endearment? no
for what they heard was not the sound of a nightingale in the forest
but rather the sound of an emancipated prison screaming to the reaches of the farthest

The scene made me sit back and assess
my life looking back needed to be addressed
A voice isn't supposed to be internalised, is it?
But why do I struggle to break out?

Why is it so hard to let people hear my voice?
Why, why, why

My answer?

That's what you get when you underestimate the power of your voice.

Depths
of
Emotion rolling back...
...forth
The tide is low
as am I
It's immense
Inescapable
The
Drowning is welcomed
Accepted

I gaze upon the broken rose
pulling petals
finding joy
in little things

Funny how when's it's low
There is alot said about others
a full vocabulary
magnetic, low and so others shall be too

There she dances
No care in the world
No care for glances
Nor criticisms hurled

This is me sweet and short
I'll tell you now I bring forth naught, to the table
I'm no looker, definitely no smooth talker
My banter is unique, I can yet confirm, only sweet
as most of them say

If you happen to collapse near my way
be rest assured it"ll make my day

there won't be guilt, regret or sorrow
only contempt, maybe a pleasant surprise tomorrow

This is me if you will
an open canvas, for you to fill

It's been years since we first met
yet this concealed feeling remains...

Being friends just isn't enough any more
Fear controls this invisible force between us
To afraid to confide...to say 'hello'

to afraid to say "I love you..."

Against the high and mighty walls of the niche
Beat the rhythms of rain dropping and falling
Wet and trodden are our people under the shoes and heels of the riche
Dripping and cascading down the Earth, inimical and exacting

There isn’t just water in this rain
The tears of mothers, fathers, our brothers and sisters
We told them they do not belong, they have been pained
Their blood and sweat has been stolen, none have bothered

Fires and mass-looting have become thematic
Chaos has ensued, we are witnesses, and our fingers have failed to lift
The cries for our beloved have become loud and frantic
It’s a busy schedule at the graveyard shift

It’s funny how we have forgotten that our rain is just the same as theirs
We have forgotten that the rain falls on us too, in equal shares