Spoken word is too hard.
I would rather write all my thoughts down
On a blank page full of potential.
I find it strange to proclaim my ideas
To a faceless abyss
Or an ocean of people.
I believe that having the contact of a pen
Or a piece of graphite
To the pulp of dead trees
Easier and more soothing
Than blurting out phrases
Because I can choose
Who judges me.
I am able to see who sees this.
Perhaps I want a sense of control.
Maybe I just yearn
For the certain approval
Of those who I show
My chicken scratch of brain processes
Rather than await
The unfeeling insults
Of those who would hear this
I would like to choose
To not know the cruel truths
Than hear the hateful things
People have to say
Because I am the person I write about.
I would rather stay
In the pretty, smothering fog
And prevent my oversensitive brain
From hurting me
More than I hurt myself.
