CURSIVE SYLLABLES

I stand with trembling hands

in front of a crowd of pseudo fans.

My mouth is dry—cracked from

holding the desert under my tongue.

 

I am afraid of being the jester in a table of Kings.

I wish I could disappear from the face of the earth,

away from the prying eyes of those who believe that

they know every single cell that makes up my being.

 

I stand trying to inhale, but my lungs are damaged

from years of breathing their derogatory fumes.

They will never realize how much their ridicule

affects my emotional and physical wellbeing.

 

I am afraid to reach beyond the painted image.

To extend my hand towards the stretched canvas

and pull out the person confined within the portrait.

 

I stand with a beating chest

full of melancholy and self-doubt.

But I will not let my heart become

the marionette of my fears.

 

I am afraid of the world because

I have seen its shadows.

Yet, I know that the darkness

only exists to emphasize the light.

 

I stand trying to speak to an

audience that is deaf to my voice.

But I will not let that discourage me

from shouting at them the truth.

 

I am afraid because I am human.

I know that my time is just another

second within the phase of the clock.

 

Yet, I will not give up.

I will keep shouting and searching

until the day that the jester is crowned.

This poem is about: 
Me

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