I keep my words to myself.
Hidden, locked,
Buried under the earth.
Quiet, they say.
Don't you ever want to talk to us?
Open your soul to us?
I do.
All
The
Time.
And in moments like these,
A few may escape.
As poetry,
That barely tells the story.
As poetry,
That rarely makes sense.
Dented,
Tainted,
Stuttering,
Like a broken record.
But are you listening?
©Meenu Syriac