My Lack of a Voice

 

I do my service of not saying a thing
Strangling the frog in my throat and doing it in vain
I’m tired of writing about nothing
Who am I kidding?
I write about
Pain and despair and self hatred  
Possibly I patronize myself so I can get better.
Makes since for a second
Until that second is dissolved
Crushed into broken moments
Lines and shapes on paper or is the paper on the shapes and lines
I dictate the scribbles in eloquent form
Persuading myself that it all gets better in the end
Beginning to feel there may just be an illusive illusion covering what I once thought to be true
All the inadequacies I perpetuate do nothing but sedate
And, as of late
I really can’t relate
To what I see
When I look in the mirror
Or, even what it would be like to be happy with me
But, when I gaze at the scribbles on paper
It never ceases to amaze me
I know I’ll get better in time
Those expectations seem like they may never be fulfilled
This why I write about
Loathing and hurt and self disgust
Because it is what I have lived
What I know
I’m ok with that
Because I’m good at it
So let my own lack of a voice be heard
My writing reverberate
Onto every bit of my conscious state
And yours
But, ultimately
This
This is for me