Silencing Vine

When I am not heard, I write poetry,

And I hope that my words will be enough-

Written with pen or typed with my weary hands;

These words will be what my voice is not:

Seen; Heard.

It once was buried beneath floorboards,

And my eyes had been covered with paint.

What good is gaining my voice back,

If there are no ears to hear what I say?

And what good are opened eyes,

When a veil has been placed in the way?

I’ve never been so close,

To something so far away.

When I am not heard, I write until my insides burn.

It is not enough to say that I hurt.

There is a vine growing from within,

Wrapped around my bones.

It waits impatiently, lingering in the back of my throat.

Out of my mouth, it manifests itself in words;

Choke on it, they force me, when I am not heard.

The roots have spread into my feet;

My nerves and my veins boil within me.

The vine knows who planted this seed,

And the vine knows he is calling.

For it had been planted,

In the back of my throat,

To grow and to choke me,

The moment I spoke.

When I cannot write, it is cause he holds my hands.

And when I cannot speak, his lips burn against my skin.

But there are moments I try, and there are moments I can,

So if you hear me, please listen—

I don’t know how much longer we have until the end.