Monologue

This is not silence;
The words that rush through my veins,
erupting into syllables full of venom;
Killing every idleness.
It cannot be a silence;
When I am quacking,
trying to find a fine breathe;
to keep my soul intact.
I am talking, in furious metaphors
at war with my indigenous self
Over words unspoken
And rhymes never heard before
There is no silence
When my numb hand is dragged
Through the tearing paper
Dripping visions of spirits unseen
It a discourse of the mind;
Engulfed in a prison of words.
"Libera Me"