Southern Waters; Still Waters & Dead Words

The words I wish to write have been stolen from my mouth,

Stripped off the end of my fingertips,

The words I wish to leave left unsaid somehow find their way to my tongue,

Splitting my fingertips at the seams,

Tight lipped,

The emotions I wish to express cannot be shared, (I)

The thoughts I wish to think remain half thunk,

The petals are somehow still in full bloom,

The waters are undeniably still,

The words, stillborn, dead before they end,

(I) Being above reproach.

The peace I seek comes from merely having the knowledge something I wrote exists. In the matter of shedding light, I will say this,

I feel like I’m under the cosh a bit lately. I merely wish for the world to see that. The struggle is figuring out how emotions and circumstances play together. My identity and my faith are not determined by how I feel or by whats going on around me. The struggle is figuring out how emotions and circumstances have clout and where and when to give them credence and when to discard them. This will bleed into how you write, how you express either emotions or circumstances how you think and don’t think, consciously and sub-consciously, and so on and so forth.

Once I know what to do with either emotions or circumstances I have zero problems letting them run their course or working to discard or change them. Diagnosing them is the struggle and perhaps a new concept to me all together I don’t know.

PoetryMatt Roselake