Taciturn

I’m afraid of open windows, open doors, and open mikes –

As the thoughts come rushing to my lips,

I have to try and sew them shut before my sins, opinions, and dreams escape –

After all,

I wouldn’t want to shock them with my sins, offend them with my opinions, or make them distraught with my dreams –

So instead of speaking with words,

I speak with salty tears like oceans I’ve never seen,

 

Because, silence is what I am most days

 

And as my sewn lips come unstitched I cover my mouth in the anticipation that emotion infused expressions will become knives unto the throats of others,

I fear that stories of my struggle will sever souls,

The words my father has never spoken to me will break bones,

And the sound of my heart turning to stone will desensitize the senseless

 

But then again, silence is what I am most days

 

My silence is dark corners, streetlights, and disjointed thoughts

My silence is the disturbed, is empty bottles of cheap whiskey, and is the creaking of rope after a man has offed himself

My silence is 4045 Agnes, and lonely moments with blueberry Kush blunt in hand,

My silence is pain, my father broke my heart before I understood the concept of consistency and my experiences with men have only caused me to settle further in my cynic complacency

My silence is fear; it is the fear of what others might think of me, but by no means do I seek acceptance,

I have known too long of what that search does to someone,

I have seen what that person becomes,

They become sad, hopeless, and what everyone else wants them to be.

I am silence most days, so that on the days I am not, windows will be lifted, wind will blow through them and rid my spirit of emptiness like house without furniture

Doors will fling open in opportunity,

So I may live out the dreams I have wanted since eight,

Because a 9 to 5 is not enough for me

I will utter my sins,

The things I have done, lies told and bad habits I have fallen in love with

I will speak my opinions whether or not I will be hated and judged for them

I will stand at open mikes; spew free verse in acts of desperation because I can no longer hold my hands over my mouth to keep in the words my dead uncle's lips, ash, cannot curve to form

I am silence most days, but today is not one of them

 

                                   

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
My community
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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