Below is the poem entitled Real Words which was written by poet
Taylor. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
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My false reality is a normal man,
owned by financial security, slave to
the essentials and more, much
My desired existence is that of an
a wordsmith, a bard, a writer with
beyond measure and degrading
Lately, the two overlap and become
for sake of survival...
Concrete floors, blistered feet, and a
that I have given up on the dream,
the one goal that keeps me above
Though my effort surpasses most
general laborers, I feel the normalcy
taking hold of and overshadowing
the life I need,
the existence that calls to me like a
the nights when settling seems too
And I break my back and bruise my
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
into the foundation of my
How do I compete with failure?
A question that kills the confidence
over years of painting my soul on
Should I be meant to be "average",
Should I be destined to be a lost
never found the title I so desperately
Why do these words come to me so
Why do I bleed ink and bandage the
in hours of devoted creativity that
from nowhere less than a place that
soothes like home to a veteran
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
me as a waste of time for a
No insight into my work past a few
No knowledge of my struggle past a
And the silence, the god damned
is a toddler seeing death for the first
A constant and typical experience
me down to a weeping infant prone
Fear that is born of a man reaching
for purpose but grasping only the
of air stained by nothingness, the
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
very spirit of a man to the point of
mental illness and a longing to lose
Yet the pain acts as motivation to do
to "be" more...with no direction
a first step to any path or road right
And the urge to give up multiplies to
undeniable and unbearable
Like a victim to an attacker,
Just a means to survive and
of the shame of being broken in
Yet through it all, I work...
Then I do what comes naturally...
I cling to the hope that I am what I
I clench the idea that my words
And I survive on selling my time, my
for eating and living long enough to
my voice, the one that will hold their
and capture their eyes in the gaze of
My reality sits on my chest and rides
slowly sinking shoulders...
It's the nightmare made too vividly
but seems essential to this false
And though this is the only life I can
It is the words that still remain as
real to me
as the first moment I discovered
And for this reason, I swallow my
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.