Off My Chest (poem)

Constant battle between the words and me:
So many pronouns have I debated,
Within the poems I have created,
Yet I could be shy when you look and see

Me without this pen. I can't use my voice
To show inflection, or pronounce it loud.
I'm hidden behind the dark writer's shroud --
All I hope is that these words maintain poise.

An MC with no mic, me with no pad,
You can try to draw illusion in the air,
But does anyone ever stop and stare?
A capella; is this some sort of fad?

No, I don't plan to ever stop this, here:
It lived long before, and it will remain --
Beloved by men both witty and insane.
What makes this different? Cast away the fear.

Where the rhymes come from, a question oft asked:
They live in wood, and in flame; everywhere,
In the grace of sport, and in futile prayer.
The rhymes are the world, and they can't be masked.

It seems that personality's too firm
For any event to remove the past:
Some seconds dull, yet they will always last.
And this be the product of a half term.

Something about this so therapeutic.
A big thank you to all those who screw'd me,
Taught me a lesson, albeit crudely:
Crooked like Nixon -- so very cool, Dick.

Cut me deep so I attacked foundations,
Though I worked it out: you were the problem,
I was a shadow, so I said sod 'em:
I was a B plus in your gradations.

Now I'm Labern A star, that's all I know
From the time spent in the hermit's shell.
Thirsty for some, but I managed to quell
That lust. From there, simple to overthrow.

Now what am I? Transformations obscure.
I pump iron so maybe I'm meta --
Known to like plants, and sting like nettle:
But I wonder if I'm more mix, or pure?

Of times when expletives seem the right way,
I tell you this: it's not worth the time spent
To write them -- I never buy, I just rent
So it's off my chest; I've other things to say.

Trying to keep this one hard, no bleed through,
'Cause too much emotion comes easily
To me, so stand off and keep it breezy --
So one line: yeah, I still think of you.

Like Pink Floyd asked, "what's the space between friends?"
Rely on them, or let their senses guide?
Bring them every moment they were denied,
And if we run low, we just share our ends.

The need for wealth has not been this clear since
When you wonder what means the most to you.
If possible, wouldn't you yourself sue?
I would. Why not start to live like a prince?

Yet aren't there times when the blood runs coldly,
The heart speeds up, anxious emotions rise,
Shivers within, but fire-lit eyes --
The night draws in, and the night comes boldly.

The greatest writers in my envied hands.
Enemies at my feet, and my friends high,
Anyone is welcome if they sigh
At the state of things, seated in the stands.

"Don't get this twisted," but I think gender
Is more confused than ever, differences
More important than all -- he says, she says:
But know love one species can us render.

If you don't find sense in what I've written
Blame it on everything I'm living.
In an unknown direction I'm striving --
But that's the style with which I'm smitten.

So intrigued with success, if I learn it
I repeat, wash, then I rinse it dry,
A game of rugby and I scored a try:
Do it again till we win -- we've earned it.

I've been a part of too many losses,
Now I love to win, yet maintain respect;
If you offer a hand, I won't deflect.
Still a game though, so I want more tosses.

Thus the musings of a sunny noon slot
Reclining on a dark green couch, two seats --
Thinking of all I lost and all I've got,
Listening to unheard rhythmic beats.

Such is the power of the written form:
Open your mind and your dreams on page swarm.