The quiet child

 

I was the quiet child in school.

 

Outside, you couldn't stop me speaking.

A million words a minute, a verbal cascade,

an unstoppable avalanche hurtling toward

an immovable wall.

 

A world of questions, observations, stories.

Stage lights on me, a captive audience,

and I wouldn't let them leave. The world

was a play, and I was the lead.

 

Inside, I was the quiet one.

I would never raise my hand,

feigning ignorance, claiming no answers,

when in truth I’d solved it on my page

long before the question faded.

But on my lips, it swayed... silent.

Inching closer to the edge, before

stepping back at the last second

and swallowing itself in haste.

 

To say anything led to the same outcome,

a vicious attack in the playground

the second the teachers turned their backs.

 

So, I stayed silent.

Until I could no longer bite my tongue.

Wounds too deep, pain too strong.

Then I stood

and I spoke, and I spoke, and I spoke.

And the world heard.

 

I won't stop now.

My words can heal, they can hold,

they can question; they can mould.

They can create; they can destroy.

They are powerful - not a toy.

They bring hope, they bring joy.

So, I’ll not stop.

Not like that scared little boy.