A Writer Trapped



I was mulling this over, playing with palabras. I then saw a friend’s post: “When we are lonely, do we say things that we don’t really mean, or do we speak our deepest truths?” This my confession of the moment

I’m trapped in a maze of words,
Of my own making.
Most people write their own relief,
But I sit behind iron bars, forged of ink.
Composed of all my words, of all the things I think.
Reliving each memory as if it were made whole again,
Brought into the world of the real.
It’s art without the catharsis,
Vocabulary intercourse without the climax.
Why is it that other people seem to know the language of life, when I’ve barely learned the alphabet?
Still learning to use the clunky syllables while others are having fluid conversations.
Expressing their innermost desires, and getting that which they need;
All I get is a syntax error, a misunderstanding.
Most of the time, I bathe in solitude like Bathsheba,
But staring up at the moon I often wonder if love will forever elude me.
Because what’s life without someone to share, without someone to bear the cohabitated mentality of mutual understanding.
These are just some things I think,
When I’m trapped in a maze built of my own words,
And I stand behind iron bars forged of ink,
Composed of my words, and all the things I think.


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