Excuse my French

In the silence of a crowded room,

Where laughter masks the lingering gloom,

I utter words wrapped in disdain,

A burst of fire, a crack of pain.

“Excuse my French,” I whisper low,

As if the language of my heart could flow

With elegance, but instead it spills

In jagged edges, raw like wounds, it kills.

I paint my fears with curses bold,

Each syllable a story, a truth untold.

Beneath the veil of societal grace,

I scream for freedom in this stifled space.

“Excuse my French,” I cry again,

When the weight of silence feels like chains,

When kindness wears a hollow mask,

And vulnerability’s too much to ask.

I curse the stars for their cruel light,

For the dreams that fade in the dead of night,

Each “f**k” a rebellion, each “shit” a plea,

A raw declaration of what’s trapped in me.

In a world of polished façades and lies,

Where whispers hide behind friendly eyes,

I’ll speak my truth, no matter the cost,

For in this language, I find what’s lost.

So pardon the heat, the fire, the rage,

As I tear down the script, step off the stage,

In my messy, tangled, unrefined speech,

You’ll find the essence of what I seek.

“Excuse my French,” but here’s the thing:

In this chaos of words, I reclaim my wings.

I’ll curse and I’ll cry, I’ll laugh and I’ll scream,

For every harsh word is a part of my dream.

So listen closely to the lessons in pain,

In the fire of anger, in love’s sweet refrain,

And know that beneath every careless word,

A heart beats fiercely, a soul unheard.