Maybe I’ve run out of words.
I read and I ***** and I explain,
but I’ve nothing to say in the silence,
no words seem to remain.
There are syllables,
and phrases, and complimentary critiques–
but where is my substance?
Has my brain already peaked?
What happened to the meaning?
And why am I afraid?
Words are meant for interpretation,
so why, when I share, do I feel shame?
A fear of seeming simple-minded,
of not dissecting the metaphor,
of missing the quiet sarcasm,
of reading too much, or not enough,
once more.
It’s not that I’ve gone missing,
I’m just softer in the crowd,
learning how to listen again
without needing to be loud.
I still scroll through the garden,
where poems bloom and fade.
I don’t speak, but I’m still listening–
just lost in what to say.
Nov 13, 2025
Nov 13, 2025 at 1:32 AM UTC
Maybe I’ve run out of words.
I read and I ***** and I explain,
but I’ve nothing to say in the silence,
no words seem to remain.
There are syllables,
and phrases, and complimentary critiques–
but where is my substance?
Has my brain already peaked?
What happened to the meaning?
And why am I afraid?
Words are meant for interpretation,
so why, when I share, do I feel shame?
A fear of seeming simple-minded,
of not dissecting the metaphor,
of missing the quiet sarcasm,
of reading too much, or not enough,
once more.
It’s not that I’ve gone missing,
I’m just softer in the crowd,
learning how to listen again
without needing to be loud.
I still scroll through the garden,
where poems bloom and fade.
I don’t speak, but I’m still listening–
just lost in what to say.
Coming up with a comment as deep and well written as the poem can be so difficult, and a simple compliment doesn't feel like enough. So I heart and repost, because it seems I've run out of words.
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