Myself

Long ago, there was a nightingale

Which tried to condemn it's violator

But it was doomed to fail

Since it's tongue was cut from the very core.

But perhaps this Greek myth and I are different

In the sense that my silence is out of choice,

With my back having scarred wounds, which meant

That I was tired of doing the same routine.

I laid myself out, like a numbed patient on the table

Allowing examiners to glance at my insides

And yet none of them ever stayed,

They just came and

Left.

It feels as though I'm regressing into this mindset

I had long ago

When I had my priorities fixated

Ignoring everything and everyone else

But perhaps this is the lesser evil.