Poetry: the language of the tongueless;
the fervor of those whose hearts
swell with the ferocity of thoughts unspoken.
The sanctuary from the curse of
silence imposed upon the mute.
Those who tremble inwardly from
the weight of a thousand words
stumble upon the beauty of a pen on paper,
the grace in which the letters curve together in wet ink.
In written word one can find refuge in the darkest of days.
Poetry: the lighthouse shining in the midst of
chaos, the speck of reality enveloped in a wind of madness.
Okay, so I woke up in the middle of the night wondering what it would be like to live without speaking aloud or in sign language. (Or, more specifically, if I had my tongue cut out.) This poem happened in about ten minutes, and then I went back to sleep. It might be a bit cliché. I dunno. My mind is mush at two in the morning.