There are silences too loud to bear,
so we stack syllables like fortresses.
We invent songs to outsmart the void,
give laughter teeth, make it uncontainable.
Who first carved a whistle from air,
unwilling to surrender to stillness?
We fill rooms with hums of machines,
shatter mornings with the screech of tires.
A baby cries to prove it exists,
a mother hums to drown her worry.
Even the wind learns to whistle
through cracks and emptiness—never silent.
Our tongues twist sound into soft armor,
words spilling to tether us to each other.
There’s courage in the quiet we avoid,
but courage often hides behind the noise.
Even now, I snap my fingers softly,
as if silence might choke if left alone.