Stuck in my head

By Omar Auf

written sometime during the summer

As my call for help flies,

To amplify all the silent cries,

Free of doubt, I proclaim,

That I have no name,

 

As the waves of uncertainty are brushed aside,

And into the scene arrives a shining tide,

One that will wash away all the lies

And leave only my survival or demise,

It is the fact that I am stuck in my head,

Heart murdered by reality, idly undead,

Beating, waiting to be revived once more,

And with the power of compassion, soar,

————-

Trapped in his mind, he sees no escape,

No ingenious plan, nor a hero and cape,

Just a ghostly presence in a city of thoughts;

A body of will in the midst of sniper shots,

War-torn, indeed the city is,

But in the end it is still his,

Thus he can never decide,

To abandon his mind’s side,

As his sorrows are roaming the streets of his mind,

Trailing his heart, to him, being the most kind,

————-

Words flee as thoughts prevail,

As many do as ice in hail,

Nobody listens to total silence, to nothing,

Instead indulging themselves in shallow stuffing…

So much to say,

But only one way,

To break through the walls of my brain,

 

And stand in the face of fear of pain,

Expose myself to the world,

And then I will be heard,

With everything to say, good or bad,

All true and serene, yet sad,

Yet to write is easier than to do,

And I cannot simply see it through,

To speak my mind, to expose my soul,

To allow someone to possibly punch a hole,

In every dream and every feeling,

Then wait for a long process of healing,

No sir, I cannot possibly comply,

Or refuse, and roll down and die,

———–

If only there were a nifty tool,

To hide one’s eyes and make them cool,

Then he would surrender his guard,

And all of this wouldn’t be so hard,

Maybe he has what it takes,

To swim through endless lakes,

But no one would ever know,

As they expect him to row,

If only they actually knew,

That he is one of the few,

Then they’d know he’d rather swim than ride,

But that would make them terrified,

To even think that someone is different,

Flawed, special, and to petty things indifferent,

Normal is the expectation,

And mediocrity, its inflation,

Thus he has to conceal and deceive,

Lest he makes the idle grieve,

———–

But what is it that holds me back,

From launching a full-on attack,

And telling everyone, far and near,

Of the things I hold so dear,

About the things everlastingly within,

Which will lead to an outstanding win,

For myself,

Over myself,

———–

His biggest foe is in the mirror,

In his eyes, both hope and terror,

But most importantly there is belief,

Which allows him to accept the grief,

Knowing the morning hue washes all that must be,

And out of a tiny seed grows a towering tree,

Which is why he will not allow himself to be shut out,

And with all his passion and pride, he begins to shout,

And out comes a fraction of a fraction of the fires lurking,

And with mesmerizing glory it appears to be momentarily working,

 

———–

Then I see admiration in their eyes,

And realize I have the wrong prize,

Transparent body, beating heart,

No trust in anyone near that body part,

Unfathomable discontent,

My self, I still misrepresent,

By declaring one part of Me,

 

And letting the rest, inside, roam free,

Never to be known to another human being,

Except when self itself is fleeing,

 

———

Thus, on the verge of losing himself and all he knows,

He walks carefully on his toes,

And starts to remove the guise,

Expanding to his true size,

Stretching to the stars,

Loving, all the way to Mars,

And fighting throughout his return,

For he has a constant inner-burn,

Till all injustice is defeated,

Or more likely he dies overwhelmed, but not cheated,

Then the memory of him fades away,

But there is not a passing day,

Which comes and the world is not reminded,

Of a person who was trapped in his mind, heart blinded,

Stuck in his head,

Half-dead,

He dived in an endless ocean,

And hit the bottom, met face to face with Emotion,

Then came out and lit the earth,

 

With the stars of his second birth,

 

The revealing of his hopes and dreams,

 

His compassion lakes and love streams,

 

———-

 

Because he, or she, and I are all the same,

 

Someone with an inner flame,

 

Which shines so bright to the point where one was afraid,

 

To burn oneself and others when one’s truth is made,

 

And burn indeed we have done,

 

Fueling ourselves till the battle is won,

 

So, never won, our flame lights on,

 

For us and others to go on and on,

 

And that is how the world goes ‘round,

 

Previously stuck in my head,

 

Now heart and soul found.

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