The caged feeling of being unable to speak. The words don't come as they are, the pen is a dagger, the paper flesh, flashed out in single syllables. The grammar gone, so wrong the sentences; so hard to understand. So hard to explain. The tongue sounds dull, broken the snares of the instrument. Nothing of comprehension can the voice still... still produce, produces a song of windpipe cacophony. The concert of the voiceless, enclosed in their shells. Can I, who can speak, speak for them? A gesture the least, may be comforting. Yet, I too turn to silence, where the 'community' does not comprehend there is nothing to say when the voiceless aren't heard inside ones heart.
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