Can the translations ever happen, that turn the things I speak

To words I meant?

The voices in my head strangle me, yet their one plagues me more

Feeling caged is a privilege, what lies beyond is seldom better

But how would one know when the gone never come home.

The flowers I reap, only ever sow poison

Hoping for the nectar feels like a miserable sting.

What seems like a gentle push, trembles the towers atop

What better are they if their feet are so brittle?

The cages open when the words finally settle

But would they still lead back to the roads they paved with glass so shattered?

Who doesn’t love a jester, until the jest is on them,

Suddenly the amusing start walking on eggshells.

Do I lose a piece of me to take back the words I speak?

Once in a while a visitor arrives, to bring the pieces back to me

But it’s only as good as a phantom can be.

I find myself in the woods with lumberjacks all over,

It scares me to think they’ll let me be around.

Do they shape me to their wishes, or do they stack their failures on me

With hopes of turning tables on the deities of their own misery?