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Poem

It came ever so interesting how tears are spoken by sound from tiles,
I see weighing stones aloft.
I get to swing alone in the scale,
Unbothered by no feathers or gold...
Just myself, against nothing.
I have stories prepared for my own undoing,
Ready to take place through ink and binding.
One that could be told for others as past time,
Or could it even be?
That, I knew not.
So long had wonders of a different dream flooded on top my own waters of reality,
Long have I dreamed of another,
One where I would not feel the urge of leaving.
I find it hard to be in tears,
For in fear I may be not liked.
Indeed, the world knows how to shut an already mute mouth,
How cruel.
Not a chance given
Not a chance taken
“Not a chance, young man!”
Yet, the world cannot be blamed.
That, I believe.

And so, I learned talking indirectly,
Through songs, stories and poetry.
I learned the hard way how to go around things,
Like “life” I was never taught about.
The need to see first if my words are allowed,
If walking in a different way is not a sin,
Or just basically like,
“Would breathing be alright?
I won't be a bother, right? I hope not.”

It's silent, always.
Aside from arrows pointed at me
Or eyes piercing my skin.
No strong horse for a mount,
Not even a trusty sword as a companion.
Yes, not even a carrier pigeon from long ago...just, silence.
I wish to leave home.
Yes...
I wish to leave.

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