Build a wall around yourself. Barricaded like the ancient cities of Rome. Walking through the halls quietly with these words spinning through your head. Knitting a scarf so intricately bound expressing the sorrow of that day.
Your skin itches and palms sweat.
You grab the closest thing to you a piece of napkin and a pencil off the gum filled floors. The words flow from your mind then slowly wind down your arm shooting from your fingertips.
I don't speak a lot but if you listen closely my mind will tell you volumes. It will sound like the rain falling on a calm lake, or will whisper reassurances.
Up here between my two ears is filled with stars and the moon there are worlds I've built with blooming trees and unexpected dreams. Sometimes I mistake street lamps for the moon. On some days I can't tell the difference between my left or right shoes. On others I don't even wear shoes.
My mind has built a jail, my skin and bones have formed the cell. Every time a letter goes down on paper the rusted bars of that jail start chipping away. Decaying like the ocean hitting the seaside cliff.
A babies first breath or a soldiers last wish. Sometimes in my cell I forget to breath.
MY lungs are rendered useless. MY voice is lost in the race of traffic or the chaos of yelling.
With every stroke of the pen MY chest inflates, deflates, inflates in that soothing pattern. We forget to breath. Every morning we wake is one less cup of coffee and kiss goodbye.
When I pull out a pen everyone can hear me. I am screaming from the rooftop. I am the dying wish of a brother. I am the final kiss of lovers. When I write the whole world can hear me.
MY veins are the strings of kites flying in the sky. Tethered to nothing but my pen and paper. My heart pours out through my fingers. I am free, alive like the first full moon of the October sky.