Hidden Meaning

Being unable to speak, even though all your head is fulfilled with are words, is really painful. The moment you try to give birth to all the sentences that you have created, but you cannot since they stuck in your throat and refuse to go any further. Pen. Paper. The only way to make your words obey you, the only way to let them free and avoid chocking. Yet, who are you to be read ? Your poems will not speak your mind, they will barely murmur them. So you start to behave like a pathetic beggar, showing somebody else’s words on the screen, on the radio, in books. Humbly hoping that they will see you, hear your silent whisper -that is me, that is what I am. So naive and illusive. They are as blind and deaf as you are mute.