I yell and I yell and beat on my chest.

But all that is on the inside. What you see outside is a man who speaks in whispers, at best.

I'm chained and shackled, battered and bruised. I'm calm and approachable dressed in a handsome suit.

I'm choked up and crying, drowning in tears. If you know me well, you'd know I haven't cried in years.

I yell and I yell and bang my fists on the walls.

But it seems that everyone just walks past me, they don't want to see or hear the ugly truth.

I write poetry to give you a microscopic glimpse into the ugly mind I truly have, with a cynical outlook towards the world that may even seem warped and twisted. I'm a product of what my circumstances have made me.

I can yell and yell and beat on my chest.

But if you don't want to see it or hear it.

I'm a man who speaks in whispers, at best.