deepundergroundpoetry.com
Dynamite and Doormats
There are so many things,
I want to say to you.
So many things I want to yell at you.
And all of my words,
Are yelling confidently-
From under a doormat.
Screaming at you to stop talking
And just listen for once.
You never stop ranting.
Talking, yelling, screaming, and debating.
Your sentences can last hours,
Occasional breaths and pauses.
Pauses not ment for my words,
But for your mouth to catch up.
Your mind is an ever-growing tree,
Spawning branches off branches.
Each one an idea, an offshoot.
New leaves are new information,
And you're roots are impeccable
At feeding your tree.
Your voice is like dynamite in the cliffside.
Booming, deafening, destroying
All other words in it's way.
You never stop lighting and throwing
New ideas into the mountains.
I want you to listen.
I have dynamite too I don't want to use it.
Because I know why you do this,
Why you're like this.
You have decades of hurt-
Inside and out, mentally and physically.
Years of wondering alone, in silence.
Blasting away the years of quiet;
You're fighting the mountains.
So, like many times before.
Sweeping my words under rugs,
I hide my dynamite there too.
And this poem, he'll never see.
It's too far underground.
I don't think he could understand
What my words mean to me.
I want to say to you.
So many things I want to yell at you.
And all of my words,
Are yelling confidently-
From under a doormat.
Screaming at you to stop talking
And just listen for once.
You never stop ranting.
Talking, yelling, screaming, and debating.
Your sentences can last hours,
Occasional breaths and pauses.
Pauses not ment for my words,
But for your mouth to catch up.
Your mind is an ever-growing tree,
Spawning branches off branches.
Each one an idea, an offshoot.
New leaves are new information,
And you're roots are impeccable
At feeding your tree.
Your voice is like dynamite in the cliffside.
Booming, deafening, destroying
All other words in it's way.
You never stop lighting and throwing
New ideas into the mountains.
I want you to listen.
I have dynamite too I don't want to use it.
Because I know why you do this,
Why you're like this.
You have decades of hurt-
Inside and out, mentally and physically.
Years of wondering alone, in silence.
Blasting away the years of quiet;
You're fighting the mountains.
So, like many times before.
Sweeping my words under rugs,
I hide my dynamite there too.
And this poem, he'll never see.
It's too far underground.
I don't think he could understand
What my words mean to me.
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