My mother always told me I talk too much.
But I couldn't help it.
Too many stories pool benieth my wavering tounge
like oil in a lamp.
They sicken me.
the lies I hold for her, the words never spoken.
Like an azure sky, tainted by the grey rolling clouds.
And the words I've painfully renounced.
Tell me pretty words.
Since I no longer alow them to flow from my mouth.
She told me I talk too much.
But to her the silence of the sound of my pen on paper was worse.
They know not the secret world with in my head.
Or the life I've lived with out them.
Because I talk too much.
So now I don't
I still have a burn inside me.
A small cultured flame.
I miss the days when I was wild, free
Speaking all the words that came to me.
Now I sit,
legs crossed, hands still,
my mind a full, frivolus wonderland.
She looks at me accross the room, stern, watchfull.
I purse my lips and whe winces.
Too many things to say.
Spill out like oil on a flame.
She said I talk too much.
So I stopped.
For too long it ate me up.
I spilled out all know,
what I hope and I dream,
The things that keep me up at night,
All the guilt I swallow.
Like oil to a flame.
I brought back my fire.
