I tried to conjure up words,
like a song embedded into this
lustrous air.
Because I did not want to bother
this world with my silence.
My brain would pinch out bolts of lightning,
trying to find the maps that sets me
in the middle of the room
because for so long,
I’ve always been kept hidden
at the back of an attic,
covered in gray motes of dust.
I tried to read more about this world,
about things I thought would make me
ideal and interesting.
To shape my sculpture into straight
lines, carving lucid edges in the
marble of my existence.
And maybe, the philosophers of this city
has so much to say about this world.
But some people shall wait at the other
side of the room,
sitting in silence, letting
the slanting light spill over the window curtains
looking down, drinking the tea of their life.
Who’s to say that there is no wisdom in silence?
That there is no freedom in the hush
whisper of the void.
I tried so hard for so long but maybe,
I just have nothing to say.