Doors Of Perception

He speaks

He sees that across the room he is watched by the cold eyes who are always on him.

He squeaks,

for the words he wishes to speak

lack the strength of independence.

He is asked what it means to be himself,

Knowing full well that any sense of character cannot be contained within writing.

Him? Himself? He feels so alienated that a paragraph can be oneself,

not knowing of its own illiteracy, for its words are blank and white.

He ponders,

 mulling the possibility of a personality not unlike his own,

Just maybe a little different.

One with greater confidence, greater understanding, greater contentment.

“Is it possible to be something other than who you picture in your own imagination?”

Or is it all just interpretation?

The onlooking eyes, deep and empty,

The hundreds of stares from those who know not your struggle

The look of shock as your intelligence can shine plenty- outside of a classroom

as his eyes traverse a picture screen of people moving- a frenzy

Of rodents- like lemmings

who also move to serve no real goal,

But like Tyler he is a lone wolf

Cast out by the sheep

who decided that his GPA mattered more than his sleep

It becomes quite interesting when fully pictured

It’s charismatic

Elaborate

and best of all...

His mind goes static

He attempts to speak once more, 

his words sound erratic

He isn’t ready yet.

He doesn’t know himself well enough, his mind’s set.

He’s learning but can’t help forget

about what it means to be human.

To have the nerve inside and the choice not to use it.

He thinks that’s a good place to write

A place of comfort at night

But you see daddy never left on a light

Daddy just sparked it

Which somewhat led to his creativity

But more negativity

than he was ever prepared for

What the ____ is a mentor?

But not really.

He thinks that he’s really a teacher

but because he is seen, but never truly heard,

the lesson must not carry either

The air feels chilly,

Cause now that you understand he’s serious

His voice can’t sound as soft as an African lily

like the cordialness that was once apparent has now left

the only thing to do is rest…

He thinks he’s ready now,

He no longer squeaks.

He’s beginning to speak

He is beginning to find his voice,

the chaoticness no longer binding him,

Not being pulled by a string; self-grinding and

It comes down to him: Whether or not he wants to speak.

A power never apparent to him unless his face was in concrete.

He’s not sure yet.

If anyone wants to listen,

if anyone cares to listen.

He fears they just won’t get- the point.

That he can control who he will become

That his society cannot tell him what he can get done

That he must be prepared to face the world to come