It’s timely timing that tries- ties my tongue
To solidify the simplest speeches that seems to be sung.
Why did God place me as a mute? For
when I was four,
I never spoke anything with flair or fair.
For if I mislook- mistook there’s, they’re or their,
I would be prompted, persecuted and punished.
Perhaps they prayed this prince could know by n-now.
Now, knowing this, I stay silent in fear,
since the torment is still not far from here.
They mock in their heated, conceited, and, beyond anything, well-treated words.
Each person mocks at me in an influx of herds.
And when my voice breaks a poem’s rhyme,
they mercilessly mock and give me no time
to explain my stu- for the fiftieth time.
Strategic and tedious, these royals are.
Like Van Gogh to the public, I too stay far.
Far into the starry, starry night
to sing my song, no words tonight.
Not so long my st-ttering takes flight,
fluttering away like an unbridled kite.
Hues of violet swirl with primrose creams.
Yet, like Vincent, these are all but dreams.
How low can a man be to crumble at the seams,
and think that a bullet is the way that redeems
him from this world? We are somewhat alike, I fear.
With one ear, could he hear the difference from hear to here?
A King and a painter, both suffer from strife.
One stu- while the other lives by a knife.
Words are a battle everyday,
although I dream, they cannot go away.
And why was it England, with the Nazis at our doormat,
that God tainted with a King who could not fit a basic format?
King George the Sixth? More like King George the Stu-
Utter peril, I will bring. Not because I cannot speak,
but in my self-confidence is where I’m most weak.
I was a captive to my own fear, until one day,
the forceful rhyming of life had stopped by one man.
It was you, Lionel, that taught me something
far more beautiful than this stu- of a world.
You taught me that I had a voice.
A free-willed mind that could dictate for itself.
I didn’t have to
fit any certain struc-
Sure, I would stu- as I would always do,
but I could chose my words whenever I wanted to.
I could rhyme,
I could drag out each sensitive stanza with no fear of rejection,
for these are my words and I alone could do the correction.
Your dulcet kindness, I could never repay.
In speech is not the only way
you saved from what happened after Vincent’s Starry Night.
You taught me of hope, in spite
of my worlds not coming out right.
I have you to thank for England’s voiceful King.
Nothing will hold me down. By God, I can do any