I reach out and pull my hand away.
Why can’t you take ahold?
Listen to the words I don’t say,
All these things not told.

I scream out in blistering silence.
Hear my cries unwept.
In my mind this calming violence
Away, like dust, it’s swept.

The smile I wear, always the clown,
But inside is despair.
My thoughts always upside down.
Keenly I am aware

Of this mirrored reality untrue:
A jester’s macabre display.
If only I could get these through,
The things I cannot say.

© Erick Pratt