Keys-

A vast stream of endless words come out . . . with no one to hear them- and I c**k my ear and listen.

 

Alone . . .

Abandoned

 

The words fall from my pen. And I am so quiet . . . nothing that I say parallels the interface of my expressions . . .  they seem almost too numbered for any amount of words I can write. And my voice is gone, silenced, by the infinite amount of faces that I wear. The lines interspersed beneath my eyes, the shape of my lips, the way that my eyelids fall, as I glance away at times . . . these are visions of the soul that pass . . .

In a whirring blur. Hundreds of them. Some deathly, some pale and ugly, some too painful and too great for words to tell. Which is why my voice, my verbal abilities cannot effect such a portal. And yet if you look close you will see . . . I am like Dorian Gray, with my soul written alone these lines. My eyes are biting like frost, and as deep as the ocean’s mass of depth- and yet, they remain hidden in the shadowed door, covered by its protection-

The protection of my silence. For, if I do not speak, then no one ever hears me. Not many people can understand the language that I speak. And even if they could, it would be, in all likelihood, too mesmerizing and terrible for many people to want to hear . . . so I sit here in silence-

Stirring up this myriad of endless thoughts . . . thoughtless expressions that span across my weary gaze . . . waiting for someone to notice . . . waiting for someone to see . . .

What lives behind the mask I’m wearing.  

 

Will no one ever see the portrait? The shattered gaze. The beautiful way that my lips purse together, in the most feminine gesture when I’m thinking something really sweet? Is there no single listener? No one who was rendered with just the right talents, in that one peculiar fashion . . .

Tailored just for me?

 

I think not. So for now . . . I will bide my time with these keys. Having my solitary tete-a-tete . . . because maybe someday someone will see . . . and they will know that my voice is present. That it depicts a myriad of different shades and colors- each one crystal, gleaming, and exotic . . . very different from the rest.

Someday each one will be treasured, and fingered over carefully, and sought-

Though for now they remain unseen.

Each face is quiet, and demurely tucked behind the door. No one has ever heard my song, the epiphanies that warble from my lips, or the gentle caresses of my sweet lullabies . . .

Because to most, if is just as if they didn’t exist- for to them I am silenced.

But someday I will sing my tune. Someday someone will listen. My expressions will at last be noticed and my voice will exist in . . . a greater form than that of pen and paper.

I will share them with another, and abandon my tete-a-tete with these keys . . . silent, haunting, dark portal which these opinions haunt- they will drill a hole through my cavernous dwelling-

And see the light.