So, they say that words have power
that we create matter,
but all of my words
haven't felt like they have power.
When the pitter patter of my feet
felt the street. When in
my dreams my words stopped things.
But in the world,
what did they mean?
Caressing ice winds and heat filled blows
didn’t stop, when my head said no,
didn’t end, when my soul let go.
When my words were free, I was not.
But then again, all those words
were just silent thoughts.
I’m not a genius with words.
I don’t wield weapons hid
in short stanzas filled with
what they teach in world lit.
And I think how I can say what I can’t say.
How I can tell the world, and still stay
A stranger, far away
removed, and insane.
I’m brave enough to ink the thoughts
to give a little, not a lot.
To let someone into
my double mirrored room.
You can’t see me
and I can’t see you.
My eyes still blind
still young and naive
so I’ll still hide until I can see,
if this world can handle my story,
The Real Me.