Each word I write saps my strength,
leaves me hollow, craving rest’s length.
An hour to recover, to reclaim,
the fragments of self lost in the strain.
I ask too often, too much, too long,
for others to judge where I go wrong.
Confidence eludes, it slips my grasp,
so I lean on their truths, my own unclasped.
When I speak, my voice feels thin,
false notes trembling deep within.
My thoughts sound strange, a fractured tune,
a lone howl beneath the cold, pale moon.
Social threads, a tangled snare,
writing’s pain is easier to bear.
I smile, I speak, but it falls askew,
their words collide; mine break, untrue.
I don’t know the dance, the subtle rite,
of speaking soft or speaking right.
They’re right; I’m wrong—I can feel it all,
a shadow crouched behind their wall.
And so, I sit, outside, alone,
a fool replaying what was shown.
Too much, too little—was I rude?
Too polite, too crass, too misconstrued?
It boils down to this: I am too much,
yet not enough, a truth untouched.
From now, I’ll smile, lips sealed tight,
a zipper’s pull, my fragile light.
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