I sit
To contemplate.
A deep thinker,
If I do say.

A bare speaker,
High dreamer,
A true believer.

A small side of me speaks softly,
In undertones
Of black and blue.

Pointing the gun
And tying the noose.

Thoughts,
As I know,
Let loose.

Leaves me stifled,
And bruised.
Tired,
And confused.

Dazy and hazy,
My heart is racing.

Words of truth
I cannot unfold.

For a word shed
Is a word told.

And I,
Kept quiet,
Would feel too bold.

For my soul is now sold.

Does being strong require that I come crumbling under pressure with the guise of bravery to cover the bleeding that the pavements scrapped within my being?

Does being strong require me to be undaunted, brave to pain, and be iron-minded that no thoughts of rest shall pass upon the cage I built, made up of screams that I swallow in times of despair?

Why does being strong require me to hurt, and hurt with no one understanding that I too am just an ordinary person, that although I'd take a bullet, it does not mean I am heroic, sometimes I wished the bullet would avoid my flesh that is so brittle by the times.

Does strong really have to be sacrificial on my part? Just because I can be mean to maintain order that I'd have to be punished, when to prevent chaos I chose to keep it a circus in my head, that keeps me up all night.

The past it is no sea
no tide that breaks upon a foreign land
it is a creek, an oily little stream
which bleeds its waters on today's white sand

the dictionary may tell
of these words
and their definitions
but those pages will never
portray the true meaning
in the context of you

What goes in, always,
Comes out,
Through the ******* of life,
Which is **** itself.

Such a waste,
That we are born,
Live,
And die,
Fighting for things,
Money
Materials,
******* things,
That we can’t take with us,
When we die.

What a ******* waste it all is,
Yet somehow,
Everything and everyone is needed,
For the next phase of waste.
**** becomes fertilizer,
We become reborn,
Into whatever else is **** out next.