Awake! arise! the hour is late!
Angels are knocking at thy door!
They are in haste and cannot wait,
And once departed come no more.

Awake! arise! the athlete’s arm
Loses its strength by too much rest;
The fallow land, the untilled farm
Produces only weeds at best.

It's a silly question
I have to ask;
it's been burning on my tongue
for days now,
sliding around,
trying to get out.
Maybe I should let it go,
let my words free
upon the world,
into the air,
and never even try to care
about what happens.
But I don't think
that I could do it.
Could I really?
Could I close my eyes
without imagining light?
Could I step forward
without a hand before me?
Somehow, the answers
never colour themselves in
the way I'd like.
Outside the lines
a storm is brewing,
words are forming
and the thunder in the distance
cracks the sky open louder every day.
Can you seal this gaping hole?
Tape couldn't hold me back
for long,
just like it couldn't stop my mouth
from opening;
stop those words from being created.
Suspense is killing me,
eating me alive
as I stand here silently,
arms folded across my shrinking body
and feet tight on the ground,
trying my best
to step on every crack;
I'll break any back I have to,
if only to stay silent
one more day.