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.
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 12:24 PM UTC
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.