PRISONER OF TIME 1 © 2007

The words that leave my mouth

Feel misplaced and hollow,

As if they cannot find shelter

In the sound that exposes them.

They prefer the somewhat mad writing,

Where they can dance aimlessly,

Find comfort in crooked lines,

And snuggle in mute silence.

On paper, they find their home,

Far from immediate judgement,

They can be what they truly are,

Without the pressure of perfection.

It is in writing that they are freed,

Becoming full and intense,

And even in the madness of verses,

They find the peace they lack.

Spoken words are lost in the air,

But those I write persist,

And it is in this controlled chaos,

That they truly exist.

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