Surely

cacophony

is worse than

a deadpan

tone of voice,

but there's no choice

when it comes to one's voice,

tragically.

Obviously.

Then I'm blowing words out into the air

but no-one ever seems to care

about what's coming out of my mouth.

My words just die down south.

Who cares if all I have to say is the word 'blue'?

Is it madness to ask for someone to talk to?

Instead of walking brick walls

Word avalanche, word water falls

somehow sound like nothing, mute,

I should play them the Finnish flute

so its melodies, my cheers

lend me their open ears.

Then they have the nerve to say

what I've already said.

So I call them out like 'hey!

Don't you make me feel more dread!'

I know I shouldn't even care.

But my words are headed Nowhere...

...but now they seem to be somewhere...

...because now here they lie

on this silver screen or beige page,

penned down forming

a poem, glowing.

Now you can't reflect their shine

with the mirrors that replace your ears.

So all's well, yes, all is fine

and someday I'll have new friends, peers.

I'll be striding through university,

yelling 'look how far I've come!'

After, I'll pursue prosperity

through surplus income.

And when I won't have time to tell

my little stories and allegories,

I won't be able to sell

you such sounds,

nor gold crowns.

But you'll wish I did, and you'll treasure weekends,

because soon I'll be living on its campus with friends.

While you whisper to the wall:

'do we even know him at all?'.

If only my voice sounded like a disco ball.

Then I wouldn't have to write this all.

︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎

ద ద 𖦊 ꪉ 𐀔 𐃸 ద 𖦊 ʊ

༒ ༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒ . . ༒

༒ ༒ ᜊ ༒ ༒ ༒

༒ ༒ ༒

༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒

༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒

ద ༒

༒ . ༒

༒ . . ᰔ

༒

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