when i'm with you
i don't write anymore.
i can't write
because it's quiet in my head.

but then you leave
and it's a riot
but i still can't begin to write.

it takes a while , you know
to channel every one of the voices
and pick the ones
to tune in to.
      
    -why i don't write anymore.

Spinning yet standing still
Everything's a tremble
All the world's a jitter
I long to hold it still

Suddenly a shudder
A chill besets my soul
Silence falls, stark and shrill
As earth and atoms still

Universal chaos
Set a shiver in me
Pleading relentlessly
Demanding infinity from mortality

As my small heart attempts to warm eternity

The noise between words

Is unbearably loud

Embalmed within the suffocations
of modern society. I have the weight
contorted upon the covering of my mind.

Obscured within a coffin of  white noise
deafening my existence. I only see voids
of reflection clouded within my reality.

Lying beneath so many layers of contorted
nonsense. I live for the time of censorship,
Where life was silent and I wasn't buried.

the noise the noise it hits me like a speeding car

the light so bright it turns me to tar

blinded by light and deaf from sound

I feel a ram of loss dig me into the ground

the intensity of the senses mushes my brain it flings me around and

around bringing me chaos

every single day

The static speaks my name and it's driving me insane,
the night's stars are it's eyes and I watch it right back.
Shadows cast on the blame, but still lighting up the pain,
I'm covered up under the skies with a veil pitch black.

The silence overloads my brain, and each thought's wasted in vain,
with a million possibilities that will never occur.
I am shackled with a moral chain, but it supports me to refrain
from a sense of humility that I can't ever deter.

I find each locked door more outrageous,
and I'm left like before, wondering if I'm contagious.
Why would they comfort me instead,
of putting a gun straight to my head?

The static speaks my name with pronunciation it can't obtain,
if white noise could stutter it'd probably have quite the drawl.
Questioning if I should feel shame, if I'm a painting or a stain,
or just a curse you mutter like graffiti on the bathroom stall.

I find it all dizzying and real dangerous,
I'm wondering if my misery is contagious.
Why would they comfort me instead,
when they could just leave me in my bed?

The static shrieks,
the floorboard creaks,
the river's dry but the faucet leaks.
The static shrieks,
years came from weeks,
I live in quiet, only silence speaks.

I plan my life in different stages,
I wonder if my strife is contagious.
Why would you comfort me instead,
of letting me follow the path you led?

Every once in a while
I feel the need
to embrace silence
not to rid myself of the world
but to remind myself
I exist.

- Sometimes, the noise makes me feel lost.

I was walking in the landscape
Of my crowded mind
Surrounded by noisiness
And poisonous commotion

Until I found a place
And peace of mind
A sphere of silence
Like a dome inside my head

But to hear nothing
And to see nothing
Is to be left alone
With anything the mind conjures up

With brooding thoughts
And troubling doubts
Surrounded by clouds
And self-inflicted commotion

The sound of silence
Is the best thing around
Until it becomes too loud

And when it becomes too loud
There is no doubt
That I begin to long for sound
Again

Praising silence delusional pagans
interpret perception of finite senses
fabricating concepts outlawed by reality,
as sounds audible and imperceptible

travel through mediums elastic and viscous,
eardrums capture peculiar waves of pressure
whilst bodies distinguish pulsating tremors.
What a prodigy! The auditory privilege

aural ability to hear, billows crashing
on shores, winds blow through crispy leaves
of ancient trees, where enamoured nightingales
sing, mating tunes humans reproduce.

Deepening breaths and sighs, musical
compositions voicing instruments while
vocal chords intone words that bring us closer,
exchange ideas, bequeath stories of verities.

Yet, increasing volumes may disrupt
fragile minds eager to listen, in a society
creating noises of its own to fill the voids
left by melodies unheard, disregarded

to the benefit of klaxons, traffic jams, alarms,
frantic rolling stock, people shouting
offenses, constructors drilling to insanity,
and if you listen carefully, energy stream

through electric wires an incessant hum
to which we are clumsily attuned. Our silence,
all but silent, ridded of the rest we could hear,
eyes bat, air flow gently into our lungs, blood

run through our veins, heart beat to a rhythm,
synapses sparkle thoughts impossible to hush,
internal heat engender emotions, flickering
sensations roar. Seducing silence only purpose,

perceive the entirety of all
the universal melodies unheard.

There's a certain sadness, you know? The one that makes us cry in our sleep, the one that makes us feel numb and dumb. The one that makes us mad.

There's a certain sadness and I hope for better tomorrows. But I also want to smell that sense of justice everyone talks about that I cannot see. I want to feel that. I want to fight that.

But it is cold today. And tomorrow. And my mind can't stop talking. My mind can't stop screaming. But no sound comes out of my mouth. So everyone thinks I've got no thought. But I do. Perhaps too much for the world to handle.