They wear many smiles trying to hide pain,
heavier than the flow of rivers and the rain;
trying to not show that weakness feeds from within,
as if not wearing it for days was a great sin.
All of these facades run deep and when they become thin,
all hell breaks and words don’t come out clean,
So out of fear, most shut their emotions trying to avoid a scene.
Conforming to the crowds,
losing their real sound,
like water, hiding within the clouds.
They are still trying to get out,
But thanks to their pride they are still bound,
so deep within remain those heavy shouts.
Until they are released, where they can’t be judged,
In those thin papers where ink won’t budge,
there they stand above without taking lodge,
without taking consideration of any grudge.
As compositions roll, tighter than any clutch,
swiftly delivering emotions in a single rush,
knowing that their expression cannot be stopped,
they give their everything and start chop,
mincing words and allocating them in every turn,
until they are immortalized and can’t be burned.
Even furnace can’t give them hell.
When a poet sings he sings well.
So why take a facade, if you can bail,
and express it all within paper trails?
See, poets are born hidden, out of sight,
deep within papers expressing in all might,
all that’s within, because it can’t be stopped by any rite,
And none of those are still wearing their facades outside
By Jan M. Ramos