Someone once told me that I listened to music too much. I told them that the quiet was violent. And that the silence kills me. The absence of sound makes me think, and when I think, I feel awake, and when I feel awake, I have hope, and having hope is an enormous mistake. The sound floods my lungs and mind to force out the dusts and cobwebs of my insides in a final exhalation. It floats over my lips and into the frozen air. But some days, when the silence can't be quieted by even the loudest of songs, I feel crimson. That last day, with it's final pull of inertia, the crimson spilled over my mind and overflowed onto my skin.
YOU ARE READING
Revelations
PoetryIt was really me. It was really you. There was really nothing we could do. To put it concisely, these are short, philosophical situations, feelings, and thoughts of different persons and personalities I've encountered.
