I might take the lump from my throat and throw it as a stone.
I might cast it upon those who never would have known
its true origins, how it hardened with the words suppressed
by my own still mouth that asks to confess but is inept
to releasing doubts and instead paints them as my eyes.
See their colors, unable to describe my cries
of salt and sighs, quiet in my private hurt,
crumpled as a fallen bird
that can not speak but asks to be placed in your palm;
Not to be held as a spectacle or cooed over in pity, but calm
and quiet, asking you to listen though it might not make sense
hear me from my heart and not as a defense,
Remind me that I am not meant to lay flat and alone.
In my own despair, the voice is there to craft and hone
As my own, to create whatever I decide
To be the messenger of feelings that reside
Within myself and always mind, not never
Because if I do not say what is the better
measure of explaining myself, what I do mean to say
creates something else, an inexplicable anger or fear,
a rough touch upon someone who doesnt know whats clear
of what has happened or my intentions
and wont know without its mention
that there is something else there
in my words, behind their inflections
of my tone and reflections
of life at the moment,
silence continues to condone it.
Don't let me ignore myself or you,
So speak and I will too.