[untitled]

Listen to the silence, it thrashes 

Rattling away with a dull drum beat 

And there it is buried

Deep inside my head 

Talking, chattering, forcing lines of thought 

Scorches mark bare white walls 

For hours I sit…waiting 

Naked to the lies that made me 

I wait for the silence to break,

To see my humanity shudder from the chill 

My hands are heavy, 

Lead weights that drag my face to the ground  

Bought and sold with such handsome placement  

For what if my hands had not formed this desecration?

Had not uttered the destruction of this life, 

And broken these cowards fingers 

Could I be one that counts himself a part? 

Or am I less, only a sliver

A translucent mass of bone and flesh 

A whisper of a thought 

With such emergence of soul, 

I give the world a shinny thing 

So that I might have peace, 

Or is it silence, that thing I hate?  

Those private councils held to quiet a furious mind

How can silence torment? 

Unrelenting, like the sun, but darker  

Who gave it hands and feet and fists?

Who gave to it spirit, a presence

That it might complete the madness it lauds. 

Who spoke my name to it?

Who told the story of my faults? 

And in that telling I fear above all else 

The lack of this unformed life

Because in it is my verdict 

My pittance to pay for a life unrealized 

A silent life                             

 

Reviews

[Sorry Infamous]

I always look at a poem without a title because I wonder what could inspire the writer but not have a name... I was shockingly suprised at the depth, the length of this piece. It was wrotten wonderfully but I am sad because it has no title. You need something strong as strong as the work itself.

[Gandré]

Just today I was thinking about silence. That sillence sometimes silences even the silence itself, what causes emptiness. So I loved your opening stanza. It is awakening consciousness. Everything is a game on this earth, at least, to me. Loved your silence poem.