Ask for an inch,
A mile is walked,
Because the dream in mind,
Is farther away,
Than what one thought of so;
Beforehand!
With a pen in battle,
The sword will break for it,
As that it will and forever-so,
Be rusted in time and not dried out.
Flowers to the rose,
Smell sweet,
But the name in question is,
The thorns that will prick if threaten.
Dulling of a pencil,
Cares only to make a point,
Faded yes,
But there in script format.
Repeated words said,
Clever if so,
Beyond a long ago from the first voice,
That command vocal speech.
Yes,
Another cliché to speak of,
But before was to tell another,
That could be done without,
Needing passing words!
Yet to now,
Without so,
Would words of anew be that aware,
As to what they are now?
A blurred reply,
Is likely,
The answer to give in this matter,
For yes or no nor maybe could be right,
But alas be also wrong.
We speak for many reasons,
Some good,
Some not,
Some a bit bleak that haven’t gotten their grip,
Yet!
But are said,
For they are not forgotten,
Fully in glee or gloom,
They are there.
Reminding of what something was,
But in some ways,
Begging for new members . . .
A say name,
Of someone you care for,
Someone you called a lover or friend,
That in you thought did goodness to make you,
Who you are,
Over and over,
Tried it out until it becomes something,
Another’s basic step in learning to speak,
And not be meaningful.
When saying the name,
Is becomes nature,
Bland and void,
Of passion that once made you smile.
Until you just tired it out.
Being bias or something that bends the rules,
Before,
In saying that having a voice is what others need,
People do,
But finding it takes time and combing out copies takes just as much,
Where again clichés is all one has at the end of the day,
For until they find their voice,
They must at least know they have one,
That is a bit unsure what to do.
But at least they know,
They are not muted for others to hear,
But voice,
Hands,
Pictures,
Or whatever it takes for others to listen.
They at least know.
Common really,
In people,
In all of us!
That there is not a voice,
Going unheard,
For again,
It is at least forming.
Changing,
From a cliché to something,
That can’t be copy,
Even if one tried,
They would never get it,
For it wasn’t their voice.
And that is the mission,
At the end of the day,
Being one self,
That broke away from crowd.
If you understand,
Good job,
You’re abnormal,
But hey,
It’s welcoming.
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