Playing With Words


People say I'm good at playing with words and such,

But I can't keep using words as my crutch.

I'm getting older,

So I have to grow bolder.

Words can only do so much.

I have so many fears.

I cry so many tears.

I'm so angry all the time!

But I never speak; I'm just a hopeless mime.

It's like I'm made of defective gears.

I have hopes and I have dreams.

I smile and I laugh, but not all is as it seems.

I've been broken for so long

That I'm sick of the silent song;

Why can't I let someone in to hear my screams?

Is it okay that I feel so alone?

I mean, I have a home, a laptop, a phone.

I have friends, family, and pets.

That's about as content as it gets.

So why do I feel as dry and dead as a bone?

The bullies grew up long ago.

People acknowledge me as a person, now… So…

Why am I so depressed?

Why do I feel so repressed?

Why am I trapped with nowhere to flow?

I write a lot.

The memories should only be a tiny blot,

But they come in random spurts;

So suddenly that it hurts.

Maybe I should stop pretending to be something that I'm not.

I need to take action; stand tall.

I need to grow up and give life my all.

I'm tired of running,

So now I'm gunning

To answer change's call.

Maybe I am good at words and such,

But they're no longer my crutch.

I've gotten older; colder.

I've finally grown bolder.

I can fight through the pain, no matter how much.