The Quiet

How nice it is to listen. To not speak a word.

The words of which always cause one problem

or another. I don’t miss it, not one bit.

Speaking, my not-missed foe, begone.

How brilliant is this silence

I can hear my own mind;

in it, the thought that silence is beauty

and beauty exists here, permeates.

How kind one must be to allow this nothingness;

to listen to the empty silence and simply exist.

I can hear the water droplets drip-dropping down the side of the tub

as I look up at the dirty ceiling in wonder, in silence.

How terrible it is to speak and not be heard;

to speak and be spoken over.

I live in silence, existing in it,

because no one has allowed me to speak.