Why do people feel compelled,
When days go so dark,
To talk of the hard issues,
That dwell in their heart?

We all have a voice,
Who whispers inside,
Honest words it presents,
A voice we can't hide.

"Work through your troubles..."
"Let it all out..."
Yet no one else was ever there,
When you broke with a shout.

They don't know the details.
All of that moments, nuance.
Only you... and that voice...
Can answer troubles taunts.

Talk if you need too,
Discuss if it helps.

But me and my voice?

We'll talk a while...
To no one else...

There's no path harder,
Than taking a wrong turn,
And walking,
Where you don't belong.

Every step is a labor,
Each sight is nightmarish,
And you scream,
Inside to turn around.

But them's is the breaks.
Behind is reflection,
Of a path,
Which you can never return.

So all that's left is hoping,
Through blurry eyed madness,
That light in you,
Won't cease to burn.

I wish i could say words don't have edges...
I wish I could say they're full of fluff.

But words all my life have been serrated.
And my skin, was never quite thick enough.

The old adage about sticks and stones,
Never really meant much to me.

Because words have never felt very blunted.
And from them, I so often bleed.

If I didn't think they held true intention,
Maybe, just maybe I'd get along.

But it seems after years of torture by stereo,
A world of words, is a place I don't belong...

A long time ago,
A little bird sat on my shoulder.
It whispered, it fluttered, it grinned.

It wasn't so much,
Just the ever so slight annoyance.
But it was far, so far, from a friend.

I once was a boy,
Asked little of others.
Most vanished, as though stolen by the night.

Days on end I remember,
Waking up to the still,
Of not a soul, to be found within my sight.

Notes on tables,
Bagged lunches magically appear,
Yet still, no one, to smile upon.

And as I grew older,
I find myself ignorant,
In how, this parenting thing, is done...

Heard,
Seen,
Felt,
Known.

Mostly I write,
So who I am is finally shown.

The meekest form,
I know to expose,
My inner workings,
How my heart goes...

I think it's no different,
Than the rest of the world.
I just wish everyone had a platform,
To be similarly heard.

Sometimes I imagine,
I'm the man on the moon.
Brought to this existence,
Entirely to soon.

Without choice was I,
Cast into this role,
While being forced to watch,
All the beauty and wonder below.

To watch the youth,
Rumble and tumble,
Grow fair and strong,
See their joy and their trouble.

Unable to lend hand,
Or participate,
Simply from afar,
All this I must take.

To see a love flourish,
And the agony of loss,
I'd give all of my mass,
To be a part of their flock.

As the ultimate outsider,
No chance to be held...

As the ultimate outsider,
In the distance I dwell...

I look out over,
The world and it's people.
And as I have grown,
There's a few things I wish I knew to be real.

Back when I was a teen,
In my early twenties,
I wish I really understood,
"Plenty of fish in the sea."

Back in the day,
I took this as perverse.
A twisted way of loving,
Something fake or rehearsed.

But as I've taken on age,
With a goal, to be somewhat a sage.

I now better feel,
The truth in that brief reveal.

Plenty of fish,
Doesn't mean you have your pick.
It's not that these fish are cheap stock,
For which you don't have to give a ****.

But that there are in fact,
At least a fish or two,
That may be just right,
May be ideal for you.

And before you mock,
This concept I believe,
Please stop and think,
About the things you too see.

You look around at others,
And see they found theirs.
They have people who love them,
They have people who care.

They're simply other fish,
Swimming in the same pond.
You to are a fish,
That someone's dreams are based on...