The Locker

If enough winged things continue to come after me
I will notice the pattern
but as the custom is
being afraid of being right,
I allow the fear to overpower
any chance that I will make a note of the occurrence
anywhere outside the wandering mind I have to my self.
"The Locker"
It is the warmest prison.
There in I store my thoughts.
They get comfortable there
and these, the most dangerous ideas,
 can't be trusted loose out on the street with gen pop.
So I make some sacrifices.
At least that's what I call them.
The reality is more akin to a child
enjoying the corner and it's solitude.
In truth the thoughts are best left that way.
For the hole you force ideas through,
call it language,
is a cheap compressor of idea
and it always weakens the mind's position.
Yet we feebly force the exhaustive intellectual action
into such a simple thing as speech.
"Language:"
Being both air and friction,
holds no reality within its vibratious walls
and those, with little too weak minds,
will hang all the world on the slim push pin of the words they know,
clutching as a child to a blanket
on to the shared resonant
attaching their own concept of meaning to another 's words
then holding the speaker responsible
for the thoughts their interpretation elicits.
And I am drowning.
In what ever language the mind uses
I am screaming.
I am howling.
And the laughter knows no boundaries.
This prison I create
more for the safety of the inhabitants behind,
than for the thought of those outside the fleshy walls.