Silence comes
  from bones
that rot in the Earth
beneath a wet stone
with a carved name
   white as good teeth
in a hard jaw.

Silence is
  a homerun some kid
hit in Tennessee
in 1973 and a father
remembering the ball
  going like a bullet
deep into left center.

Silence is
  a brother grimacing
whispering your name,
through salt
  and tears on his cheeks,
one last time.

Silence, it just is...
  quiet, like pain.

Let me choose
Let me learn
Let me lose
Let me burn
All my bridges
Let me turn
Down my own path
Paced and worn
By my own feet
Spare me your scorn
By turning to flee
From my own rash choices
Speak to me
But I won't hear your voices
This is MY time
To become who I am

YES I'm a romantic, what's wrong with that?
The sound of the night makes me think of his laugh.
The crickets song, in all it's glory,
cannot compare to the sound of him snoring.
Silence, I find, is often quite scary...
but i love the silence when he's with me.

YES I'm a romantic I'm quite proud to say
that he makes me happy all night and all day.
I don't have much, but I have a dream and he's in it
with him charm and his looks and rather quick wit.

YES I'm in love with him I'm quite proud to say...
we fell in love in a car, driving across the bay.

You know the type.
She's probably called something like
Isabella. Rosalie. Ginevra.
and you find her in the sort of novel where
she's outdone by someone called something like
Jane. Agnes. Lucy.
She's remembered in criticism as
Trivial. Silly. Foolish.
She's defined as Shallow. Vain. False gold.
She's analysed as the mirror, the contrast or the foil
and you're supposed to vaguely dislike her.
She'll reaffirm to the reader that the heroine,
whether she be plain or beautiful, is always, in the end,
Rational. Independent. Brave.
She reaffirms the heroine as someone who
learns and grows
while the silly girl is left looking at herself in the mirror.

The thing is sometimes I feel more like the silly girl,
the girl who needs a hand, the girl who reads books
and wants to believe the stories.
Sometimes, I'm looking in the mirror,
chest deep in my own trivial, silly little worries,
looking at the puddles not the lake, and I know.
I know I'd be one of the silly girls,
not the heroine, out there, just surviving.
I'd be one of those silly girls and I hate it - and yet
- what's so wrong with the silly girls?

What's so wrong with the girls who love themselves,
or love the wrong people or love their clothes?
What's wrong with the girls who are
brave but not rational,
independent but trivial,
selfish but practical?

What's wrong with those girls,
because I always find myself preferring
the Ginevras and the Isabellas anyway.