The words are there, smashing themselves against the walls of my chest.
The door too narrow to escape, enter.
Words inside and out.
I can see the writing on the wall.
An old chalkboard standing attentive to the minds in front.
Who are they, what do they want?
I can’t read them. And, I don’t know what to say.
Now I see.
An old tree stands its ground.
Roots crawled landscape hugging Earth.
I want to climb this tree, but its branches seem insurmountable.
What would I do if I reached the top?
If I fall, will the moss covered sorrows soften the blows?
Anxious to explain what I can’t feel;
I can’t even think about it, these words against my chest.
I imagine a song unwritten, there is no rhythm.
The harmony is too far from near, I can’t hear.
The pounding sensation seeks to synch, but my mind isn’t connected to the pulse.
Where to, what for?
I could write these days on pages for days.
The words still smashing against the walls of my chest.
Stirring anxiously for an exit that makes sense and a rhythm that begs to sing.
It isn’t the politics nor the religion that tease my soul; both take their toll.
If the words could flow seamlessly through the course of my veins, it seems life’s wounds would leave me real.
The more the words break against my chest, I leave it all to rest.
It’s calm they seek, happiness and peace.
But, it’s illusions and delusions.
If only my words could find the time to stop smashing themselves against the walls of my chest.
~Matthew Wilburn King