Dear Reader, how silent can a man scream?
Hey, for me it doesn’t apply,
That a needle can hide in my very own stack of hay.
That the very same needle can prick my nights into day.
But if I may, these are the notes of a very anxious guy.
Irony, that my heart feels like a deserted bay.
And my mind like a cracked pot of clay.
Chewing on my nails all day, thinking of something better to say.
Cracking the joints in my fingers in hopes of a simpler way.
Being anxious feels more like the devil’s prey,
With the prettiest demons lurking in the very same shadows that I stay.
Like an old camel ,my knees won’t bend in any comfortable way.
This I heard them say,
That Love turns blue men into brighter hues gay.
But what would an anxious man in love say?
The eyes of love on my naked insecurities pry,
But for what?
Unable to try, I resort to go on my knees and pray.
For What Reader!
If I may, Which or Whom?
Some may say, for me on my feet to stay. While what I’d want, on my wings to fly.
Closest to the Sun but not on wings bound by wax I say.
On these wings; Pierce the depths of that same sun in search of golden clay.
Flapping golden wings; Over the sea in search of a subtler skin for the day.
Even anxious men grow old under the sun biting fingernails all day, turning grey.
Then they become elders of the anxious ways.
Maybe teach their children and their children how to swim like a god of that way,
Over the rapids you saw it coming but everyone called you anxious guy.
Unafraid and ready to chase a shark and slay,
Swimming tense like a guard fish.
Across seas that don’t exist but only in their days and ways.
I don’t want to be there sitting in that elderly way,
Molding pots with scared clay.
One day I will lie under the brightest sun and you will all see what I am made of,
And when everything turns to dust, the bones of my fingers will be the only things to ever spell expression.
I will remain to be,