Young Writers Society

I am trapped in a box called, "Life."
I prefer to wallflower my way through the world,
than speak meaningless, soon-to-be forgotten words.
I live in my imagination as reality
often leaves me speechless.

I am a theatrical puppet who no one
quite understands.
Black and white are my only friends.
I am faceless, I hide away from my own emotions,
so I do not truly know who I am.
Perhaps we're all secretly mimes who hide our
secrets in rhymes, only freeing our feelings,
through the ink of a pen.

I am a lifeless piano filled with silent cords
that play my melancholy tune.
I'm no effervescent clown, instead a grotesque
nothing, I address myself as nothing since
I've lost the sense of being.
I drag my feet with my head down, as if there's
an infinite rain cloud above my head.
The floor is more familiar than the ceiling.

I am a broken record, in a prison uniform
doing time in silent movie entitled, "Speak."
The silence gets too loud in my world.
My world is a dark abyss of illusions,
in which I lose all my sense in.
I wonder if anyone can hear my desolate,
sinking heart, sinking and shrinking along with
my non-existent dreams.

Dreams which were wasted with a thousand moments
I'd taken for granted, I had assumed there would be
a thousand more.
My life is hollow as if beneath my eyes lies no soul,
but merely an empty shell with an even emptier smile.
People told me there's so much to smile about,
so to keep them happy, I do.

However inside there's a gaping chasm that becomes
greater, deeper and blacker the longer I wear that
empty smile.
Maybe happiness is overrated, sadness can hold
the most beauty you may ever lay your eyes upon.