The Man with No Tongue Pt. 3

Diary of the Mute


Dear diary,

I have so many things I wish to verbalise,
to whisper, to preach or to utter,
so many thoughts racing, gathering inside
must get them out they're starting to clutter
I'm not used to the paper and the pen
Ive rarely used them, well... not to this extent
my handwriting's terrible
and my spelling's twice as bad
but this, you see...this is most effective;

Even though it makes me terse
I can express myself through prose and verse
everything i write on these pages
lingers, remains.. and stays for the ages
it...engages me
but also... furiously enrages me!
I CANNOT speak when I'm spoken to!
I CANNOT taste the sweet drop of whiskey!
I CANNOT say "I love you" to the people that need to hear it most
....I cannot. I just.....cannot

And Who are they?! to take this from me?!
Who are they?! to deprive me of all this?!
Who are they?! to silence me?!
to feed me only bread and water
make me piss and shit in a corner
wrap me up in bricks and mortar?
and then spit me out at the other end
saying: "there you go little man, go fend for yourself
be good, be brave and stay in good health(!)"
YEAH RIGHT! with no place to stay,
no food to eat,
no money to spend
no shoes on my feet
chances are... ill be dead in a week.
But HEY(!) i still got my paper and pen
perchance to outlet
to escape, to unwind
hell, i can still write
even just to pass the time.

'Till someone or something
takes my hands away too,
I'll sit here writting poems,
or letters to whomever i choose.
I'll write little witticisms
like "cats got my tongue"
and that I'm "tongue tied"
and from the edge of oblivion
I'll sit and write till I'm tired.

And, there once was this saying 
I forget where I heard it
it was somewhat benevolent
somewhat cliche, but relevant,
I only heard it once, but never forgot
Its carved in the side of my brain
"Death is certain, Life is not."