Voice

Understanding how you talk, not only as a writer but as a person and if you are content with your words. As if self doubt is looking for closure or maybe recognition, and/or identity.

The words are a haunting.
Finding life on skin shed by a tree, content with the blood.
Only wishing to bleed.

The voice is loud, a thunderous applause but cease the clapping.
Listen to the sirens while they rush to the scene carefully analyzing the dramatics,
Tears...tears...tears....yet, no fear present.
No contentment when the deed is finished only seeking closure and capturing it in a quarter behind a closed door.
Mutilated, self harm to achieve joy,
Euphoria reached by knife slashing the wrist,
My voice strangling me when the words are vague.

Hollow. A corpse of a tree, comatose and afraid to sleep.
Hands are shaken not stirred by countless images cringe worthy for sure.
Flashbacks you contemplate would influence; nevertheless, ruining the purity words once had.
Stolen!
Replaced with wanted posters and help wanted ads,
Sad?
Its appalling how appealing life is with no reason,
How my tongue is jagged like the knife that sticks my spine!
Oh, he's fine... just let him be quiet.

Let him create!
Enabling every addiction stopping no visions to ensure his voice is heard!