heart holds tongue, still

my heart wishes to speak
but it is so tired, the words it might wish to send
will come out so slurred and stuttered
whispered like sleeptalk
half heard sweet nothings
inarticulate and weak
so it holds it's weary tongue still
part patience part practice,
years of silencing sponanteous soliloquies
muffling all jangling emotional outburts
eases the pain of stifled expression.

child-like desires to paint on the walls and run screaming through the halls of life naked and free as a lark in the woods, a fairy child and scamp, done away with like so much clutter, not garbage
and re-organized
put in drawers, for later inspection
photo albums of feeling, love letters never sent, so much left unsaid
always unsaid
whole volumes kept like that, like this
by a tired heart
so worn out by singing for no one to hear
that it shies away from music
for we are always ashamed to hear our own words fall from the mouth of someone else.