I Had No Voice
The words that flowed from my mouth that day
were the truth that I had written.
With pencil lead and irony all mixed in
to create a sort of unhappy concoction.
With empty words I hid the truth
Behind cold, stone lettering and smudged,
Disorganized black ink pens.
Coating incandescent emotions and concealing
them in a bland opaque fashion.
The poetic truth that is falsities hidden behind grandeur,
Could not be described with, “sad,” or, “hurt.”
Rather with descriptions of someone else
with a far worse situation.
Mayhaps a sodden stranger, misery on his breath,
With the unfortunate luck of becoming a muse.
The man's tongue locked away between split lips
and blank paper, never once spoken.
Words will pass between teeth like sand in a sift,
but when written give a sense of permanency.
Written down, pariahs gathered, they consumed
and fed on the papyrus eternity.
I felt the syllables in my breath, yet that day
they dissipated into the air and were never heard