My whole life is a literary device, metaphorically speaking.

Carefully measured syllables and word count,

how to say just enough without saying too much.

Iambic pentameter heartbeats,

making sure the rhythm is palatable and pleasing to the ear.

Except no one presses their cheek to my chest,

no one knows the thunder that rumbles in my lungs with each breath.

Imoan about loneliness from behind the safety of my fortress walls.

I live in the highest tower, it has the best view after all.

Mountains on one side, shoreline on the other,

a smattering of people strewn between.

They're so far away I can't see their eyes,

but I can tell their faces are turned up, searching for something.

Me, perhaps.

I let someone in, once.

My life was a sonnet in those days, of the Shakespearean persuasion.

I can't remember the verses now, or how the a-b-a-b structure went,

I'm left with only the last two lines, c-c, if you will.

"With a breath, a sigh, and a river of pain,

no choice but to leave and not see you again."

I could probably be more dramatic.

In fact, I know I can, I've got my entire catalogue of work at my fingertips.

Similes abound, because it's much more fun

to personify feelings into villains and alliterate all actual accuracy away

like the Pied Piper leading children with his music.

All songs are poetry, after all.