Novels

No one ever taught you
To speak in languages other than crying,
Music,
Or silence.

In your book of who speaks what,
I speak nothing,
With a few missed words or a moment of silence,
We're thrown to eerie quiet.

Maybe it's the past
Of whatever didn't happen,
I really don't like history,
So why must you?

I was proud to get over it,
But your manual of conduct said
I would revert to the way I was,
Needless bleeding.

I think the makers made a typo
When they said you could cry
But others weren't allowed.
Where it's all your fault
And you have to do something about it.

I wish I could find
The editor of your book
That says I can change,
Just like the rules.

Or maybe I would rewrite it
Just so you would realize
What you have and
What you can gain.

I always wanted to be a novelist,
But I never had the determination
Or endurance to finish.
I guess that's the way we were shaped.

A schematic of society,
Left alone to make our own twists,
Conflicts
Characters
But we're all left unfinished,
And all that we'd need
Is a backbone and inspiration.