I moved toward the rear.
“No judgment,” I roar
at the layers of fear
peeled from my core,
“Ignore me, ignore me,”
my insides implore.
The speaker waxed long
about feeling and failing,
stories and musings
and bitter, sad wailing
about choices made, unmade
prayers not transcending ceilings.
In the back, my thoughts burst,
what aneurysm of passion!
Can this thought find voice?
My hand shoots up against fashion.
A single thought compels me,
Yet I recoil its action.
The event proves enriching;
I move out through the doors.
Ignoring the challenge to quell
my dislike of long-suffering bores,
who pontificate and prattle,
who blather on in dissonant chords.
I walk past the masses
and look for a cab,
I tell the driver a story
about a remarkable stab
that left me near speechless,
and unbearably sad.
I want to speak up
and sometimes I do,
but mostly I want
my own story renewed.
My condition incurable,
My silence ensues.
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