I’ve had this urge.

I think I will,

Speak only in poems,

And otherwise, be still and quiet.

There’s a riot in my head

That no one seems to understand,

But sometimes at one’s leisure,

One can read in black and white 

And not be blinded by the color of the violent thoughts.

When I rage in scarlet screams,

And streams of tears run down my face,

It’s better on the written page.

Or when I tear the petals blue,

And throw them down upon the shallow grave,

It’s less painful to think of the abstract hue,

Rather than witness the bruised bouquet 

And the recently upturned ground.

And to read it safely from behind one’s desk,

One has time to ponder the consequences 

Of words that don’t even need to be said.

One need not speak, or hear, so shrill

A message thudding, fresh from the kill,

Or being killed, and thus, I have the urge.

I think I will,

Only, and, from now on,

Speak in poems.

-jenn