The Messenger’s quite and so is the Skype
The room is so silent and so is the sight
The head’s numb as well the mouth
Still pain’s inside.
There’s a feeling of eager like a binge eater
to talk out all the inner seethe in a bark,
to consume all the voices before you fume;
knowingly that no one would hear it willingly,
so rather you keep all inside within the dark.
Skipping talks of charity is an act of self austerity;
today’s chatter is tomorrow’s beggar –
selling one’s dignity for empty ears’ indignity
is just as bad like sleeping in the cry-soaked bed:
awkward for a minute, then more woeful afar.
This is a reason why I avoid such treason
to start a small conversation that would split me apart;
today is boastful, tomorrow’s awful:
only this what I saw, so
why just not stock things inside the already breaking heart.
No matter how I try to keep this law; however
there’s always a popping up stranger exchanger
who wants to know about me more
as if I myself could just slightly understand myself –
as if I could bring her more than a binger talk:
This is your fault stranger, you called the binger;
now, listen to my thoughts that I myself don’t know,
listen like a psychic, or rather like a sidekick
while I start sharing volcanoes from inside my heart;
listen well at our first and last conversation that now splits us apart.
Tomorrow, I’ll try forgetting all, just as you do all,
forgetting my venting as well as the funny inventing
that there’s someone who listens without it ends;
and I will be forgetting myself, remembering the law:
I’m alone with the voices of pain, and binge talks are only to prove I’m alone.
As in villages as in big cities,
As in classrooms as in societies,
I’m alone with my strange personalities.
The eyes, the smiles, the frowns, the clowns,
The hardships and their ups and downs
Have no affect on my daily rounds.
Even the precious words are empty,
No mean defenses, no more acting gently;
No more need to fake my misery intelligently.
O! As nearly all mortal beings,
I’ve tasten already the silence of night –
Sometimes broken, but never by the sounds of mine.
O! I’ve tasten all of its flavours;
Like the silence stuck in other’s empty home –
But after all, the emptiness of my heart gongs even terribly more.
Alas! Why am I tasting like a poet;
With a beating and feeling heart on every gustatory buds –
Who could understand the silence more, than a mute poet after love?
O! I’ve not even tasten all its flavours;
Thou, the old naive words of ours still re-animate my mind –
Still, with silenced tongue and heart, what I barely believe that I’m still alive.
O! We’re not even nearly mortal beings;
No silence can muzzle my written words in the fate’s puzzle –
Even if my tongue is cut off and my buds are burnt, my love is immortal – written.