a museum of unsaid things

a museum of unsaid things

Silence became my default setting
For my input and voice.
Never received an outlet,
Never met recognition
Or value in its contribution.

So the voice retreated,
Found home in a mind
Where the corpses of past selves
Remain buried,
Remaining a sprawling graveyard.

Preprogrammed responses rise,
Shifting the weight and responsibility
Of input onto others.
If my contribution
Is never inserted,
The backlash from dismissal
Shall lose its power to sting.

So silence gained a companion,
A relationship which grows,
Forming self into a shell
Which mistrusts what it knows.

The knowledge it possesses
Becomes archived,
Never to reach the ears of others,
All while my mind
Replays optimized responses
For conversations long held,
Ones I never contributed to
In earnest.

a graveyard's existence

A graveyard exists,
where tombs lay
unmarked.

What lays there,
lost to the recesses
of time?

Who lays there,
if I recall,
are pieces of self
buried on shallow grounds.

A graveyard exists,
collecting bodies
whose forms
never came to fruition.

Beware the greed of men

Beware the greed of man

Which lies dormant

Festering slowly

Until it bubbles and boils

Spilling over

Tainting all it touches

Bringing ruin

To all in its wake

Innocent and will participants alike.

Beware the greed of man

Finished products

Attracting those

Who loudly refuse

To acknowledge

sweat and tears poured

Clinging to what is owed to them

What should belong to them

What can be easy to take.

Beware the greed of man

For power, money, status

Become magnets

And no soul left in ruin

Shall become a deterrent

From their chase

From their prey

Which they deem insignificant

In their pursuits.

A silent vigil

On bended knee,
Hands clasped together,
Nestled close to the chest,
Heart's rhythm felt,
Head bowed,
Eyes shut.

The silence,
Weighing a ton.

The heart speaks
To its Creator.
Words circulate
As the mind collects
Conversations
Meant for God's ear.

A silent vigil commencing
As the pounding of the chest
Deepens.

Without a peep,
Nor sound escaping,
A conversation ends
With Amen.

beneath the scars

We bear scars
From wounds
Inflicted,
But which remain
Unseen,
Yet shaping
Every step,
Every interaction.

We bear scars
That lay dormant,
Becoming infections,
Whose healing
Becomes a herculean task.

We bear scars.
We walk
With gaping wounds
Which the world never sees.