My Disease

The awning is screaming
BITTER END.
You see and laugh,
"Let it come."

I do not understand why,
they told me of my lie.
You cannot write, you are too young.

Young rolls off the tongue, acid rain,
a chemical burn branding age.
They backed me into a corner,
"What could you possibly have to say?"

You cannot write.

But then why do these words flow,
pouring from my lips, eager to be noticed?

So I have to question.

A hand raised in the sky.
They point not to the sun, bathed in a sea of hope,
but to the blue awning with its self-prophecy
casting shadows that scramble to conceal light.

"Look forward to it."
Contempt dissolved into saliva,
spewing malice from cold lips.
They hate me for naivety, well I had hope.
BITTER END erupts from within,
resting in my mouth, a drop of poison.

You cannot write.
They told me this and I believed.
Youth is my disease.

I do not know of life,
I cannot speak of love,
I will never be wise.
What do I have to write down?
Why would anyone listen to my voice?

All this time they thought
I had been writing for you.
No. No, that was never true.
I write for me.
I only wanted you to know I was human.

They told me of my lie-
you cannot write.

So I wrote it down.

 

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