My voice is too low,
a sound that slips beneath the noise,
fading like a distant hum
that no one strains to hear.
It doesn't rise or ring,
no melody or sweetness in its tone.
It hangs heavy in my throat,
thick and coarse,
like gravel rolling over stones.
I've tried to lift it,
to force it higher,
to make it lighter, softer,
something that might dance
instead of fall flat.
But it resists me,
always pulling itself down,
rooted in the depth I didn't choose.
In crowded rooms, I speak
and watch my words dissolve,
like smoke curling in the air,
lost before they reach a pair of ears.
I feel their weight in my chest,
each syllable too dense to float,
too grounded to rise to the surface.
Sometimes, I stay quiet,
letting others fill the space,
their voices light as birds,
fluttering, noticed,
while mine sits still, unmoved.
I wonder if people hear me
and think I carry the world inside me,
my voice dragging it down,
or if they hear nothing at all,
just the murmur of something distant,
too low to catch, too low to matter.
But this voice is mine
a deep river beneath the soil,
slow, unseen,
yet powerful in its own way.
It may not sing with ease,
but it holds weight,
a truth that rumbles softly,
echoing in the quiet
where others cannot reach.
