they've all got silk for voices
measured pauses, pretty words
pain they know how to articulate and there is me
fading into the audience, happy to act
like i've never written a poem
all my life
as if i can listen to their art without
feeling my fingers quiver and resonate to the very words they say written
all over the hands i've hidden away

i like my fists in my pockets,
i like feeling safe
but they are up there naked in the most spiritual way
i can't look any of them in the eye
without hearing the poetry they wear
like a definition of the souls they've learnt
how to chain to the bones they claim to loathe so ******* much

i think of standing up there;
reading the things my fingers have whispered
over paper on nights i can't even remember,
and then i can't breathe
this poetry is my saviour please
words fade faster the louder you speak
my secrets are on paper i don't even keep
why should i trade in the only air i know
how to breathe for pity i'll never deserve?