rodriguescyrilmonte-wqhnt

If you can call it pain; if you can call it patience!: A poem

The forest of my patience is shouting through my bones like nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine needles, undone from their cushions, and then, piercing my flesh, and impaling each cell of my anatomy! I, sometimes, feel so sceptical of an avowed immortal intrepidity, when torture cordons my vision and my frame, shaking its foundations like a flower caught in a hale! I try to bite back tears…try to bite back cries…feeling as quandaried as an infant unable to verbalise its pain! O how the most unflappable will snaps sometimes; even patience slips like a fateless stream destined for aridity?! How does stone solid become brittle brick? You know, I am just like courage out of a clarion! Even when people notice my constant sighing, I hide my pain with the hideaway of aloofness!

And everytime I feel the impulse to strike down my adversaries, who vilified and scourged me, with the impetuosity of my fury, you play a ballad of love and restraint in my ear! How can I be an ageless mountain to cop it all, when the soil of my body has been constantly injusticed, ravaged, excavated and exploited by selfish, greedy prospectors? Do I not have the right to be destructive to them in return? Can you imagine the immense and intense pain of all those stars of my soul burning in the night skies?