Write and Wrong

The words, the ones softly spoken
Often are mistakenly thoughtless
and I’ve said it a lot:
The road from my mind to my mouth
Was never finished, the bridge is out
Perhaps it’s a crutch
I’m sure it comes off that way
It just feels better to write,
to be… isolated

Does this make me less than I should be?
The words seem to make more sense
When I write them all down
I come alive upon the page
and the rest of the time
I wither in the shadows

I’m heartfelt and vibrant, alive on the page
I’m cold and emotionless in person
like calculating machinery, going through the motions
because I’m afraid
and persecution seems to live and linger everywhere
I am alive but I refuse to be lively
They are out to get me
Every last one of you
Nothing feels as it should
If confidence is something given at birth
It surely was drained and stolen from me

These ups and downs I wade through
are less frequent nowadays and significantly deeper
I suppose that’s stability laced with clarity
Sobriety, I believe, is a war
Between restoration and regression


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