dust untouched

i have my voice too

nobody has the upper hand.
we are both humans.
we are both in pain.

my mind is grey (despite the colors from what i read)
my heart is black
but i try my best
to paint every breath i can breathe
with every pastel colors perceivable 
with every word i best could.
with quick-dry paint i tint these breaths
for them to stay how they are,
and as they say
nothing can change what has been done.

i feel the hands around my throat
preventing me from speaking
hindering the bats and butterflies inside my neck
from escaping.
only the dust and sand finds its way out;
only the ones you want to see absconds.

but these dusts, these sands,
these vexatious plights,
find its way back to me,
out again,
back again,
out again,
back again (when will it stop)
until i become sick
of my own words
until i am sick
of what does not elude.
i am sick,
i am not able to say what i should.

my hands shake
from what ideas
i could have made,
i could have expressed.
my feet ache,
from standing too long, from staying still too long.
my body aches
not only from what i do
but from what i am told
that i shouldn't do.

these four walls have never seemed so loud and quiet at the same time.

i have my voice too.
please don't teach me
how not to speak.

and i would want to put my voice into good use.

author's note: i leave it to you how you would interpret this.