They say to not let things bottle up
But how do I release it with no one to listen?
Screaming into the void does nothing
When the words need somewhere to land.

Alone, it builds up
And it leaks from my heart
In comments and glances and that deep aching pain
You can't, or refuse, to see
You never ask about me.

Now that I look back, you never did.
Even when I asked about you.

So now I scream into the void
But the noise takes shape
As words on paper
And sometimes, someone listens
But even if no one does
I can pretend you'll see it.
And in my imagination
Maybe I can pretend
It helps me heal.

Even if you don't speak to me
I will still stand listening.
Even if you refuse to hear me
I will still sing.
Even as you close your eyes to every word I write
I will keep writing.
Just because you wish to erase the memory of me
I will keep my own space
If for no one else
But myself.

Readers, writers
Are a company who finds comfort
In the worlds we build for ourselves
And for others
Seeking solace when we have no comfort left
In the world around us.

There is such beauty in a blank page
Waiting to be decorated,
Or marred

Black streaks dashed hurriedly
Dark and bold upon its face,

Putting shape to the emptiness
Light into the darkness,

The breaking of silence

Like running out into an open field of snow-
The vastness of the front lawn so huge
To little toddler feet
Plowing forward into the crystalline stillness
Shattering it, with sudden life
Joyful cries, wind, movement
Loud and wild life
Out of nothing, out of silence.
There is beauty, in the waiting
Of a blank page.

I go through life with pebbles in my pockets
Walking alone through the storms with my raincoat on
Sand sinks between my toes on beaches,
A cool breeze flows against my cheek under forest trees
And my jacket hangs down with the weight of rocks
In those big wide pockets at my sides.

I pull them out, hold them in my palm
Pick out a piece of seaglass to admire in the sunlight
Set aside one perfectly smooth;
I'll send it skipping on the next lake I find.

Some are beautiful,
Some come with cold dirt that reminds me exactly where it once laid,
Some are scuffed from days, years, of scrapes and hits
And I no longer remember why I picked them up at all.

But as I walk,
Across regions and eons and ranges
I keep some and toss some
Though I'm always adding more.

The memories come with me,
And day after day,
I do my best
To leave the heaviest stones in the miles behind
I try keep my pockets light.

Silence is either the most devastating or the most comforting:

When you scream into the void,
Afraid to hear your own echo,
Comfort is found in the grasp of anonymity.

Yet when you listen for a voice,
None will sound familiar,
For who can respond to ghosts but their own kind?

The gravel is quiet under my kicking feet,
Pebbles glance off my toes, just above the ground
I'd imagine it's loud in the silence
But I have headphones in with nothing playing
Listening to the idea of sound:
I like it a little muffled, so only whispers come through.
It's just enough;
Enough of what, I couldn't explain.

The wind nips at my cheeks, reminding me of a puppy
Playful even as it scratches my ears.
I wish I could warm up with
A drink, or a cigarette
But I don't do that anymore,
Even if it's the only thing I know could keep me warm
Sitting on this bench, with no one coming.

I'm warm enough.