The cat tied to my tongue, now he plays a silent tune
of sorrow and regret, no money, none coming in anytime soon.
I’m slamming into walls that I have built.
I grabbed the sharpened blade when aiming for the hilt.
White noise between my ears, a pen without a pulse
nothing sounds like me at all; the scribbles of impulse.
Perhaps this isn’t me, perhaps these words are untrue
refusing to spit out, the self-imprisoned muse.
Surprise, surprise, he’s gone, my one and only friend.
A cursed, punished tongue, keeps silent until the end.
Perhaps it is because the ground quivers as I walk
Or maybe it is the way my face gives way my soul.
I’m not old, I’m only twenty-one.
But all these thoughts steal my bed til up comes the sun
they push and pull me every which way, but never force a movement
Not a twitch, not a wiggle, not a step towards improvement