Backyard

Been looking at a blank paper, wondering,

Like I wonder about life,

And I do wonder a lot,

And remain silent between my pages

Reclude my mild spark for ages

I control every thought

I allow myself to have

Even though after each cigarette

Silence punishes me

With regret.

Like putting a word to the paper,

I dispose of the weight

For I stared for a long time,

For I spared me of each rhyme,

For I know it's too late

To wait for something to happen,

And to weep

Every word I keep,

Pointless as could be,

For everything's already been said

And still silence tortures me

Inside my head.

Like the coldest fire trying to survive while it rains,

I do something,

I write a poem,

For that's what remains

For me to do,

I can only write a poem,

Between every verse of my silence

Can you still read me?

The world is my backyard,

To explore, too many rooms

And still

Not a rose blooms.

When living your own life,

Are you upset with the routine?

Do you regret

What hasn't been?

Do you scream your heart out when it begs

For shelter

Between someone's legs?

I write a poem.

It's too late to wait for something to happen,

Do I waste you like you waste me?

We're getting old and complacent

Of routine, quarantine,

Would you taste me,

With the thirst of all the times you did

On the times I made it up?

For the world is my backyard

It's open to be seen,

To care for flowers,

Tidy up all the green.