To speak as if you know all, agree to all
Opinions on the dinner table, where internal war is common for the mindful
But only in the mind I remain,
To break this quiet, I refrain
For I have previously witnessed their disdain
Mouth full, pardon my silence
For it is not to be taken as agreement to what you speak
But the tongue is purposely numb,
Play dumb, play weak
I’m but the guest in my own abode, a stranger in the family and to my skin,
Seated facing the jury in a court where the sentence is their courtship
Internally, I am floating between foreign planets
Looking for others with my skin.
Acid in my veins
Itching my scalp to insanity,
But I contain this feeling mentally because I know that eventually,
I will fall back to Earth helplessly
After all, they birthed me, earthed me, from early
Molded and carved into a shapely
Porcelain statue, to be placed on a pedestal
Gazed upon, up-on their shoulders,
Well raised, ungrazed, untouched,
Behold… Isn’t she beautiful?
Air is tight and light is dull within these walls
This weight on my porcelain shoulders
Of course I was bound to crack, harboring the world on my back,
The perfect posture that they built,
I wilt, like a flower touching the soil for rest
Compressed, like petals into the pages of an old book,
Fossil figure fading under the soil,
A gun that won’t recoil.
For if I spoke, the bullets will tear into their image of me,
But I care too much
I do not dare
An answer from me please do not seek
Do not reveal this hidden freak.
In this battlefield, I’d rather not die a death slain by the sharpness of my own knife,
Once handed to me as a smooth rod to always hold straight,
Not to stray from a heavenly fate
Remain in an oblivious state, do not debate
Your God, your life, your morality, your sanity,
Their God, their life, their morality, insanity!
In the walls they built around me and called “home”
The halls, looking, not speaking, lost, but seeking
Alone I am, the only home I have is the pen that slices into me,
But I fear
That no one will read between the lines in here
And although my home is paper and ink
Do not be quick to think
That I am brave,
I am but a slave, to my pen
Inside my halls hangs a bone chandelier
And the light barely seeps
Through the window, only fear creeps.
4.34, red around the rim,
In the break of dawn when lights are dim,
The time of the singing sirens,
I dread my wake for the coming sun
To be seated again at the setting ray.
Where I am but garnish on the dinner table
Satisfying a sinner’s fable
Dining on sour thoughts
Choking on lumps of opinions
And talking to the echo I hear within
The cracks of my porcelain skin.