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Real Words

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Below is the poem entitled Real Words which was written by poet Audonus Taylor. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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Real Words

My false reality is a normal man,
owned by financial security, slave to
the essentials and more, much 
more.
My desired existence is that of an 
artist,
a wordsmith, a bard, a writer with 
potential
beyond measure and degrading 
limitations.
Lately, the two overlap and become 
one
for sake of survival...

Concrete floors, blistered feet, and a 
fear
that I have given up on the dream,
the one goal that keeps me above 
mediocre.
Though my effort surpasses most 
destined
general laborers, I feel the normalcy 
taking hold of and overshadowing 
the life I need,
the existence that calls to me like a 
lover on
the nights when settling seems too 
simple.

And I break my back and bruise my 
ego
so life does not implode before me.
Still, I feel the disgust in my core, in 
my being, and all the signs point to 
acceptance of truth.
The rejection letters, the sugar-
coated no, and
the silence that lingers past waking 
moments
into the foundation of my 
nightmares...
How do I compete with failure?
A question that kills the confidence 
obtained
over years of painting my soul on 
blank paper.

Should I be meant to be "average",
Should I be destined to be a lost 
talent that
never found the title I so desperately 
seek,
Why do these words come to me so 
freely?
Why do I bleed ink and bandage the 
wound
in hours of devoted creativity that 
comes
from nowhere less than a place that 
soothes like home to a veteran 
soldier?
Do I lack conviction or skill?

All the questions are there with no 
real answer to soothe my ache to 
touch the impossible.
My life is in the hands of other's who 
label
me as a waste of time for a 
paycheck...
No insight into my work past a few 
pages,
No knowledge of my struggle past a 
query.
And the silence, the god damned 
silence,
is a toddler seeing death for the first 
time.
A constant and typical experience 
that breaks
me down to a weeping infant prone 
to fear.
Fear that is born of a man reaching 
for purpose but grasping only the 
cold emptiness
of air stained by nothingness, the 
worst kind.

The damage, is not for the fragile of 
mind or heart, and it lasts until it has 
reason not to.
It's the kind of damage that rips 
asunder the
very spirit of a man to the point of 
mental illness and a longing to lose 
the yearning.
It hurts...
Yet the pain acts as motivation to do 
more..
to "be" more...with no direction 
towards
a first step to any path or road right 
for me.
And the urge to give up multiplies to 
undeniable and unbearable 
reasoning...
Like a victim to an attacker,
Just a means to survive and 
acceptance
of the shame of being broken in 
every way.

Yet through it all, I work...
Then I do what comes naturally...
I cling to the hope that I am what I 
appear.
I clench the idea that my words 
matter,
And I survive on selling my time, my 
life
for eating and living long enough to 
find
my voice, the one that will hold their 
ears
and capture their eyes in the gaze of 
passion.
My reality sits on my chest and rides 
my
slowly sinking shoulders...
It's the nightmare made too vividly
but seems essential to this false 
identity.

And though this is the only life I can 
touch now...
It is the words that still remain as 
real to me
as the first moment I discovered 
them...
And for this reason, I swallow my 
agony
and continue to try past the hidden 
tears of disappointment.
The tears that I fear may someday 
confuse my eyes about where I am 
and where I want to be.

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