Writings of a creature
Amidst nothingness, the silence rumbles
like crashing waves on distant shores.
Each breath tumbles through the air
like a voice that isn’t there.
The stillness grows, a heavy shroud,
its voiceless weight both soft and loud.
A quiet chaos, it twists and bends,
a cacophony that never ends.
What am I, but a drink spilled?
A stepped-on bouquet after a party.
A shredded letter of a broken love.
A stained long-distance memory.
I was supposed to be a flower,
but I was trampled and neglected
by the one who was to take care of me.
What am I, but a cracked glass,
unfit to hold emotions inside?
Too much for myself,
too much for others.
An annoyance.
What is this?
A supposed poem?
But it’s me trashing words,
or am I trashing myself?
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