My Cowardice Confession
Maybe if I put my problems on paper they'll stay there.
And I'll never have to worry about them
Sneaking through my ears,
Settling back into my thoughts,
Kicking off their muddy shoes and
Making themselves at home in the corner of my mind,
Once again.
On these crinkled pages I write down my choking regrets, my heavy fears.
So that I don't have to admit my pain infront of my peers.
Maybe I need to put these words down
So that my mind can finally clear.
To empty out all of my worn out, tired out,
definitely overused, definitely overanalyazied,
Not to mention my burned out, overworked
Thoughts
Maybe it's because I'm tired
Of enduring conversations
That are filled with overhwhelmed eyes
And mouths that don't know how to comfort
So instead I choose to take a pen in my hand
And leak out my anxieties
And though my words are close to petty
At least the page won't look at me with pity.
Words don't always make past my lips
Yet they leak their way through my fingertips.
Bit by bit, I can finally speak the words
That I don't know how to converse-
To another human being
Sure.
That might mean I live through my words.
Let's be honest, though, that's another lie
I hide behind these words.
I write about the adventures I'm much too afriad to attend to.
My mind craves an expedition my body could never endure
Causing me to scribble down
The chances I'm too hesistant to take.
I write about the people I only wish I could become.
And the love I might never feel.
I need to call myself a poet, a writer, a lover of words and phrases.
Because I would be a coward otherwise.
Conversation has failed me - this is it.
This pen, these words, they are my only outlet to tell my truth, my story.
I don't know how be brave.
I don't know how to say what I mean
I just know how to write.
Sure.
That might mean I live through my words.
Let's be honest, though
I have no other way
Of being brave.