Writer's Whispers

Attempting to sort through the pile

He's digging through the mental pile...

The one that started to build up

When his emotional distance started to shoot up

And he began to conceal feelings,

Make some unorthodox dealings

With the shady monsters

That claimed his shady ponders

Were in fact acceptable and logical,

That for him to achieve peace, it was crucial,

For him to dump his hurtful feels

Onto the pile, so that as his heart peels:

No human eyes

Would see beyond his rehearsed lies

And when he was downright honest

Their sight would be obstructed by a wordy forest.

He's digging through that mental pile,

And it's gonna take a fucking while

And he's fucking scared

To unfurl all that makes him afeard.

The benefit of sorting through the pile

Even he doesn't know, which makes his sensitivity rile;

Keeps questioning why things get so complex

Wondering why it feels like he's got no good cards in his deck:

He's really tired of life's trials

But a mental voice dials

And reminds him of the poems he writes

The hope that helps him fight

That he'd be a hypocrite

If he were to just quit.

And here he is doing stuff for others again

Because he carries some mental stain

That claims he is unworthy of any good deeds -

So helping people just seems to fuel his needs.

He's sorting through the mental pile

In search for a sanity that lasts longer than a while...

Because as cruel and cold as he can be

Being a good person is also something he can be.

He's never recognized himself as that

That's why the doubtful eyes in his head don't bat

But I feel his decision needs a less saddening reason,

Because I seldom feel ending poems on a sad note is treason -

I'm just in my "trying to not sadden people" season.