Talking to my father is a delicate art form
One that takes years of mastery
It's a developed fear because every answer is slightly wrong
Talking to my mother is an argument
We never see ear to mouth
Because she never hears what I'm saying
Talking to my grandfather is a debate
He's always right, even when he's wrong,
He's right
Talking to my sister is a bipolar pendulum
You never know which heightened side it will swing to
But it will never stand still at the medium
Talking to my friends is mask
They can still see my face, but rarely do I pull off to reveal the truth
Because underneath is a monster I wish them not to see
Talking to myself is a nightmare I wish to wake up from
Because talking to myself requires no courtesy call
No manners, no kindness
It's as abrupt as the storm breaking down the walls in my head
It's a sharp stab in my heart, a knife lined with truth
Because talking to myself, there's no limits
It gets darker and darker until I can no longer see the stars outside of my window
Because talking to myself is a delicate art form
An argument where we only hear ear to ear because all I can do is listen
A debate where both sides are right and I'm trying to prove them wrong
A bipolar pendulum because it never stops swinging back and forth and it only rests on the highs
A mask hiding the villain who robs themselves from joy and happiness
Because, in this world,
Talking to myself is all I have left
And it is a dangerous life to live
But someone has got to give the good fight
In order for everyone else to smile.
YOU ARE READING
Space in my head
Poetrya series of poems. no one story, no common theme, just feelings and emotions and stories by a poet looking for something more in their life
