I want to cry,
to know that it can be forgotten,
this drudgery that has become reality.
The dull pulse of the everyday
which has swallowed me,
as I to must swallow it,
choke down this sour world,
my gullet so full of grief
for the adventure that I could have lived
and the dreams that could have manifested themselves.
I wobble in these half way through the school year shoes,
I just want something substantial to stand upon
instead of this worn out carpet
and day after day doldrums of speech.
Soon I will move on
to greater things
to new things
to things that may be lost to these same patterns,
nothing out of the ordinary in this world
but outside my world flutters the extraordinary.
If only I were granted a glance
into that endless expanse of trees and birds and words.
I feel so trapped.
I feel their voices swirl inside of me,
echoes of what they really meant to say.
Why do we always hide behind the small talk of weather and work,
why are all the important things we have to say
just ephemeral laughter and sharp sarcasm,
fragments of what I have always thought about this world.
Nobody says anything truly poignant
except in the back-roads of their minds.
I can’t bring myself to partake of their conversation and chitter-chatter,
I curl away from it all,
in little puddles of exhaustion and tears.
” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”