Free Speech
It’s like trying to sever an umbilical cord
while still inside the womb,
trying to pull my mind back from yours.
Trying not to think about you too much.
Stay a safe distance away.
After four weeks of discipline
I have developed a tremendous block;
the words won’t flow at all,
five failed attempts to start
the same poem
have left each unfinished
and cluttering my memory now.
As if not having you
means I cannot speak,
removes the purpose
for writing words at all.
My daily life becomes again
just ordinary motions.
Somehow the next thing in front of me
gets done, and I move on,
one chore at a time, keeping my head
above the tide line.
Waves of withdrawal
crashing against my body.
Swimming in an ego-filled world,
where people stage
performances for themselves,
extort money from their friends,
alienate their enemies,
judge others by standards
set by self-appointed leaders,
capitalize on each other’s need
for acceptance, and hope
that tomorrow pays the bills.
My imaginary suicide was a choice,
made in a split second of reality.
If I had to give you up completely
I would not go on.
Suddenly seeking joy
and finding it, only to have to
hide it away in my heart,
is better than enduring
a lifetime of repetition, alone.
Now, in the midst of rhetorical verbiage
I struggle to hide my identity,
slip through the cracks of the system,
and listen for that one voice
that is synonymous and real.
One voice speaking in synergistic energy,
vowels and consonants overlapping,
syncing concepts in rapid succession,
thoughts vibrating into one sound
carried on an ultra high frequency
with a voice pattern
that I recognize as ours.
As if, in the midst of all the banal noise,
interrupted conversations,
polite social interchange,
pontificated philosophies, and
incessantly mundane rules,
there is but one clear voice--
one source of clarity
in an otherwise unenlightened world.
When I back away from the crowd
and speak silently inside myself,
you are the one who listens.
The one who hears me
from miles across the horizon,
who reads my troubled face,
catches my telepathic questions,
flashes answers into my eyes.
The one who understands
my poetic innuendos
and graciously receives.
It is too late to consider
extracting myself from you,
for on some ethereal plane
too close to heaven
we have already merged.
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