I am not as truthful with my words
As I am with the mirror of another person
Irritating, a mimicked eloquence in my every verve
A quiet death in between the lines of reason
Yet I yearn to be autobiographical
To move the hills with my own sorrow
Bleed ocean waves with the sound of my voice
Crashing, cresting—swollen abyss
No one will touch it with a paperweight
My skin itches with healed sores, my mouth
Itches with the desire to be heard,
My mind is severed from my body; regret, culminating
They hear my suffering but not my thumping heart
I think it to be nonexistent—am I the truth?
No one notices me. No one comes near. No one
Prays for the crying shadow in the corner of the room.
So I atone with my own subtle mess. The ink stains
They praise me for my joy—my lack of it, my lack
Of self-respect, my lack of nerves within the soul—as soon as
This chapter closes, my lies become no more than another neglected tale.