Obstreperous Soul

The verbose thoughts that rattle through my mind, verisimilitude, like a apocalypse rendered skyline
How is the subconscious thought so powerful?

The demons that scratch and claw at my insides, desiring to tear me down, become too tangible. The pain, the angst, it compounds.
How I yearn to let some go.
If I release the thoughts and feelings onto paper, can I still hold the power? Or will externalizing the internal have a diminishing influence.
The pen screams things that I wish for no one to hear, so the voice goes unheard.

In solitude are words spoken heard?

Keeping the prose within the confines of my mind spares the reveal. If I were to make evident my hidden truths; how it felt, how it feels, my antiquities, if the words were to leave my mouth, they would add a vocal measure to the perpetual build up.
Will forcing it into the open, metaphorically free the truths into the air.

I’m so reticent to share, to disrupt the mainstream narratives, too strong and stressful a tide to swim against in casual conversation.

Can I face what is inside more than just sitting here, no solution, no compromise.

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