A Quivering Mind

I grew up a quiet kid of little speech and turned to elders to talk for me,

little did I think that elders would become habit to be, that they would become a speakerbox for my thoughts though they won’t be able to replicate my implications.

Tone, watch your tone. Words my mother spoke whenever I raised my voice, and maybe because of kitchen arguments I now find it hard to speak my foul truth, oh, my mind plays tricks on me.

I’m supposed to be grown up and be a wiser person but how can you expect me to grow and shine when you’ve uplifted my roots from my soil and I no longer have air to breath. What do you expect of a little flower with no sunshine to embellish it?

My thoughts course like rivers without a current, my mind cannot decide whether to speak nor keep quiet I’m at odds with myself over what I’m supposed to be. Aren’t I just supposed to be me?


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