Coal


Do not doubt that phrases callous
will not sear skins like hides
or wear down fine temperaments in the way that
rich deep wood is wittled into no more than kindling
No soul is meant to be made another's dinner fire,
on its broken back be built an empire of gross pride
Each is to ignite,
to blur across the seemingly empty skies,
echoing its fondest wishes
Crass words must cascade down
tiny tragedies that do not embed their tales
into the fabric of a silky soul
but are read,
as to understand suffering, sorrow, shame
and shelve them,
composing new sonnets
Stories will flow faster than teardrops from a wounded spirit's
rewriting, pretty the pains of naysayers
even in tyrant's tirades the soul must befriend itself
while companions in a vast smoky haze may die down with the flames
the soul will burn hot

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This Poems Story

As a first year student at an art school, I've been trying to find the words to express the strange process that is locating your own voice and staying connected to it in the midst of competing others who may resort to drowning out your own thoughts and opinions. My voice has grown and changed and no longer feels void, or lost amongst the noise.