The days were quiet. So awfully quiet. A type of quiet that was so deafening to the point that even the crickets of a hot summer afternoon would become mute. And with that, one would be tempted to give into insanity; it's an absolute miracle that the one is not I. I, who have spent every waking day in such silence. A prisoner to my thoughts. I speak to my hearts content, in silence, all the while wondering if someone, somewhere, can somehow hear my words. Sometimes I speak so much that I myself do not listen. What is it that I speak of? Am I spinning tall tales? Am I reliving the truth? Or is it both? Do I tell the intricately crafted story of my life, a story of a truth, and not of the truth? But also not of a lie? And all for no one to listen. Here I sit, day after day, in the eternal silence. Thinking up thoughts and wandering in wonders, hoping, that someday someone will hear me and listen.
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no real agenda // poetry
Poesíapoems for all the words i can't say anything and everything goes. i write sporadically and about whatever i want. hence the title i've had the same compilation since the 6th grade, please skip to the better poems... (aka deep breaths and onward, ob...
