The Misunderstood Poem by John M. FitzGerald

As for the talking,
if I wanted something said,
it would be here.

These lines exist as they do for the falling,
for the unrevealed hurt,
for God to cry and angels fear

at my corruption,
at my shaking,
at my curse.

I need time to get away,
but present demons love me worse,
and figure ways to pose as muses.

They point to where my secrets wither.
They bruise the heights and stir the lows
with longing songs that ever crave to scream:

Let me come back!
No voice is greater than this.
What happened to the blasted silence?

No one should believe I'm real.
I disclaim myself for persona,
or I'd be bawling.

The poem is over,
I used to feel.
But now who knows?