Melancholy

Oblivious to the obviousness of living in the occidental
Overcoming the omniscient narrative
Overarching like the ogalalla
Overlord Obama
inducing TRAUMATIC experiences on occasions momentous
*Scoff*
Could I sound any more pretentious?

That rant made no sense
This is unrest
This is me writing at 3:30 in the morning when I have to be up at 8:00
I already know I will be late
Yet I stay up writing anyways…

Now this is not a monologue about how much I love writing
That I’m willing to stay up till 3:30 just writing and writing
No. No. No.
Truth is, I choose to stay up late because I have yet to find my voice
This is a conscious choice
I’m no insomniac, but when I go to bed at night I hear voices
Voices of words left unsaid, alternate choices
I don’t talk a lot, but I am not voiceless
I have a lot to say but I don’t voice it
My sister once asked me, “How do you express your voice?”
Poetry was the obvious choice

I mean, I stand up in front of the mic
Feeling the rush of attention flow through my veins, rappers delight
Electrifyingly addictive
Borderline vindictive
I mean, I have a lot to say
But I don’t talk
So I come up to the stage where you have no choice but to listen

How do you express your voice?
Poetry was the obvious choice
For me
But clearly
Not enough, otherwise I wouldn’t have all these voices in my head keeping me up
Huff! Huff! And puff!
But I could never blow that house down

How do you express your voice?
Poetry was the obvious choice
But poetry is not the answer
I don’t sleep any sounder on nights
That I write
Instead, to timidity I adhere
As my conscience jeers
Lest I peer into my arrears
To see like a seer
The answer is clear

How do I express my voice?
I don’t know

This is a poem that I wrote very late one night while struggling with depression and listening to Jaden Smith. 

 

 

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