An old man's happiness is described as
His first time in a candy store
He grows into the boy
scoring goals on the football field
Preceding the feelings of a young teen
knocking on his prom date's door
that first kiss
Before the man;
all grown-up, makes his first business deal
Getting down on one knee
Loving truly for the first time
a life's devotion
Ending with the wailing sounds
Of his first child
The end of one
The beginning of another

Is it wicked not care?
it doesn't hurt to give a ****...

Is it wicked not to love?
rejection *****, give it a go...

Is it wicked not to affect?
everyone's afraid of ghosts...

Is it at all wicked to see
to really see
*what's inside of me.

There she dances
No care in the world
No care for glances
Nor criticisms hurled

In the confines of four corners
lies the imagination of a child
the imagination becomes endless, it's own universe expanding about
and it is in this instance that the world is missing out

Missing out on the endless possibilities to attain
self control on levels of infinite realities
to seek itself in a mirror and to create what isn't, plain
old Joe they said, they didn't offer a chance

the chance to lay the identity on the table, rather it has been prescribed
ascribed, it has become- no longer seeking but just a glance
at which once was, but isn't no more

the four corners have contracted inward
no more imagination to draw
from, what happens now is not serene
the dark is welcomed, the light exiled
there's not much to reconcile
what was once a rose bush, now just thorns
the days are rejected, the night adorned

when words fade and objects come alive
mysticism arrives to die

Isn't it funny how we underestimate the power of our voices?
this sound that emanates from our throats, formulating words...
...are not just noises

Right?
I'm guessing it's pretty silly to assume that our voices are just perfectly placed noises, combining to converse with others, argue with others, woo others, defend others, offend others...

And it occurs to me that my voice, is not used the way I want it to be
instead, it's being limited. Limited to the sombre pleasures of others
entertaining people who probably don't bother, much about me
instead my voice is caged up, way up in my own thoughts

They say talking to yourself is the first sign of schizophrenia
do people who fear talking talk to themselves? Glossophobia they call it.
I say talking to others contributes to our enraging insanity
the society that conceals my voice, taints the will to be heard.

One day I got up from my seat in class to say a speech
I was surprised with what I was about to meet.
first came the silence, then the bafflement
people for the first time got the chance to hear my voice

Bewilderment? yes, Endearment? no
for what they heard was not the sound of a nightingale in the forest
but rather the sound of an emancipated prison screaming to the reaches of the farthest

The scene made me sit back and assess
my life looking back needed to be addressed
A voice isn't supposed to be internalised, is it?
But why do I struggle to break out?

Why is it so hard to let people hear my voice?
Why, why, why

My answer?

That's what you get when you underestimate the power of your voice.