We've been taught to hide behind prose So that no matter what the words say nobody truly knows What's going through our heads Ever hour until we finally turn in to our beds. So for me it all started as a game of hide and seek Seen as childish by older men Who couldn't see past the flowery words To the core of the issues I wanted to scream But instead played off as a simple dream. Somehow the simple game turned nightmare, and These words became my walls. The cold walls of a prison I had build for myself Splattered with the bright colors of better times; Times I didn't see crying out for help as one of my biggest crimes. Days passed on, and I thought my personal winter was coming. Yet time seemed to stop when his calloused hands touched the walls. They were neither harsh nor gentle.. Many of those before him treated these walls as a rental, But he came to scrape the color away and remind me of where I was. His lips spilled the secret of how some could see. They could see past the beauty to my heartfelt, tender plea. These were the ones my words could speak to beyond a shadow of a doubt And these lines could be their inner heart's water in a life long drought. This journey of poetry has had as many paths for me as the stars And each have coincided with my own private scars. Words have become my olive branch, My sword, My soul's ward against demons that can't be ignored. A life without prose is not what I chose, And so forever shall I walk on the path of the wild rose.
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