I try to speak,

The words of my heart,

Yet, they seem to turn to bitter ash,

And I choke on them,

Before they can touch,

The clean, outside air,

For a while afterward,

I would feel,

The weight of regret,

That build upon my shoulders,

Like the weight of the heavens,

Atop the shoulders of Atlas,

I feel the only way,

To alleviate the pressure,

Is by speaking,

The words of my heart