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Kvothe Apr 13
A clipped voice,
slips noise-
lessly
into
the fray.

Yellow
and shaky.
Bland, I know.
I hate to
Say.

Butterfly
in a storm,
normally deep.
I crack,
lacking wingspan.

Headcave retreat.
Feet save
my mouth.
Because the wrong
thing ran.
How public speaking feels
I listen with stapled lips
Waiting
My predator, prey, and companion
I don't know if it's safe to rip the silence out of me
I can't trust myself to move
So I sit as this black and silver storm cloud builds up inside me
Threatening to tear me to shreds if I continue to stay silent
And I stay silent
The words ache at the back of my throat
And I refuse to say them
Better to embrace my sticky metal suicide
Than the predator slash through my flesh and veins
Better to waste away in my lyric starvation
Than let a beast **** me
A metaphoric storyish proseish thingy.
Kvothe May 2014
Introductions are never easy.
Mousy boy.

Chains.
Ankles shackled.
Lungs rattle, relentless battle.
Loose phlegm, filling falling castles.
Under no pretense.
Moat; a barrier of defense.

Where voice is a drawbridge
Oscillating flow.
Open bandage.
Darkest window.
Public speaking = My bane

— The End —