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My Voice

Putting on an outsiders mask, 
Someone tailored a casque
To hide me away
To keep me from straying

Too far.
I have to remain on their radar,
They uphold me to a bar,
They’ll look at me from afar,
Judging my every prayer
Because I am only theirs.

I am what they made.
My words
Are theirs to display.
I am but a blur.

My words sit on the tip of my tongue- 
Begging to be spat out,
Born from my lungs 
Only to die young.

I want to be noticed,
I want to be considered.
Yearning to be set free from the cage
That I constantly hold myself in.
And yet i only swallow the rage.
Afraid of my opinions,
Afraid of my life backstage,
Afraid of what my words will cause-
So I wrap my pain in gauze

I’m too young.
I’m too old.
I can’t have an opinion
In this territorial dominion-
But I can’t stop
My thoughts.
Overwhelming cold.

Why is what I say
Not okay?
Why can’t I speak what I want without
Worrying if I’ll see another day?


Inside a dark prison cell-
Walking on eggshells
The iron bars of teeth- 
My thoughts remain in its sheath 
Words sit on death row
Waiting for the revolution
That the reaper will mow :
The execution
Of socialization

Copyright © | Year Posted 2018

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