I struggle to voice my thoughts, each consonant lost somewhere; stuck between my lips and throat, each intended syllable lies dormant and waiting.
Even when I pass the threshold of speech all that comes out is a jumble of pleasantries constructed by my forefathers, their forefathers and those before them.
For now, I am bound to my pen, the inky tears have stained my skin and I am still standing. The thick fog which obscures my voicebox can't obstruct the flow in which my thoughts spill violently onto the page.
I know that this probably isn't relatable but a lot of the time I really struggle to get my words out and for someone who is rarely ever taken seriously by those around me (I can be pretty goofy) I find it hard to express myself so things like music and poetry can be really cathartic for me.