My vocal cords are paralysed, like a vase for the flowers in my lungs,
The scar my neck you ask about,
Is a time stamp of 11 years talking,
So I hide the scar on my stomach,
To save retelling why it took 12 years to officially eat independently.
At my recent doctor appointments,
We marvel at how far I've come.
Unlike Physical Educations,
when my lungs sharpen from running.
In class discussions, my voice is a whisper,
Trying to fight my breaths,
so you hand out empty advice to,
Breathe, verb, inhale and exhale, creating the beat to your voice.
Like lit cigarettes pressed against my lungs,
Burns wrapped in the smoke,
The flowers cannot breathe in,
I cannot breathe in.
How are you suppose to listen to my lyrics,
When there are vines wrapped around my tonnage,
My lungs filled with Roses and Tulips
Clovers caught between my teeth,
I don't need an echo,
Every spoken word, I leave a trail of petals!
Sorry, was I breathing too loud?
The flowers just tend to brag that I'm alive!
Alive, adjective, the feeling of carelessly twirling in the landmine of existence.
I don't breathe for your opinions,
My voice will never harmonise,
With your clean, cut grass voice.
My scars are medals,
To which you can't relate to,
and that's okay.
Vocal cord paralysis, noun, when the roots to the music box are disrupted creating a vase for flowers to grow.
Unlike my voice,
I'll never quite.
Hii I redited this poem and cut out a bit. I will probably use this in a slam soI I'd love to hear your feedback.