Out Loud
i can write it all down.
every syllable, i never got to say.
on paper, i’m fluent,
maybe even eloquent.
but in the room,
my tongue turns against me.
my throat locks like a vault.
i’ve rehearsed it all before.
in margins,
in drafts,
in dead message boxes
i watch my voice
rot behind my teeth,
while everyone else
converses.
what good is articulation
if it only echoes
inside my own skull?
what good is writing
if no one reads it?
they say speak your mind,
but never hand me the microphone.
so i pass poems
like folded notes,
hoping maybe
just once
someone will open one.
Copyright © phia mustdie | Year Posted 2025
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