Sometimes I hear voices
in my heart, verses
screaming to get out,
bursting wildly
to be heard across the grind.
But to blurt them loud
wouldn't be right,
they need to be spoken gently
to the stars at night,
for these are whispers
of love that never need
to shout.
I try to grip the words
before they rip a hole
through my heart.
Sometimes they
echo within, like a face
screaming
into a chamber
of mirrors,
glassy memories
reverberating in unison
across every part
of this cavernous being.
Cracks forming over my tongue,
as the shattering chorus rumbles on.
I try to catch the sounds
before they leave my lips.
Sometimes they fizzle
against the back of the throat,
dancing like raindrops
falling on a soft lake.
Sherbet fountains
spouting memories of a dream,
other times, they sink
to the depths of my stomach.
A stone of crushed hope,
leaving me bloated
on their ever-expanding growth.
The rippling waves of grief
crashing as the stone
lands with a splash.
I try to hold back the waves
before they saturate my inner land.
Sometimes they sit
heavy in the pit of my soul
like anchors dragged
across the silt and sand.
Sometimes they bubble up,
frothy eruptions of hope.
Seismic ruptures
of seawater and salt. The bitter tang
that I taste upon my tongue,
gagging at the way it
makes me feel
sad.
I try to hold
onto the words
so that I can
write them down
and set them free,
feathered wings beating
some sense into me.
